


I Wanna Wake Up With You

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bickering, Getting Together, Guilt, Hangover, Humor, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sibling Incest, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-04-08 05:27:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19100629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock wakes up with a bad hangover. And he discovers very soon that a headache is not his biggest problem.





	1. Hangover

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from this song https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4AuHibzE0aY  
> I'm sure I have used it before but the title was so fitting (and so mean) :)

“Oh God…”

Sherlock tried to raise his head. Stopped trying when he realised that it didn’t only feel exceptionally heavy but was also hurting like hell. Sometime during the night a small animal must have died in his mouth; nothing else could explain this taste.

It was morning, so much he could deduce. Early morning. Pale light was creeping into the room. Which room? He couldn’t say. Not his Baker Street bedroom for sure. The mattress under him was too stiff for it. Oh, yes, sure. Now he seemed to remember. He was at home. Or the home of his parents, to be precise. The guest room he had once lived in after Eurus had burnt Musgrave down. Or wasn’t it? He could only open his eyes a few millimetres so it was hard to tell. But of course it was – where else should he be? His brain really didn’t function very well right now…

His bladder had woken him up. It demanded attention rather urgently. He had no idea how he was supposed to get up though. He had the worst hangover of his life, so much was sure. Wine. Beer. Champagne. Hadn't there also been whiskey? How could he have got so drunk?!

With a groan he rolled to the edge of the bed and almost fell onto the floor, just so being able to hold onto the mattress and put his feet onto the ground. He got up and tumbled towards the bathroom that was attached to the room. Not only his head hurt. _Everything_ hurt… Walking felt uncomfortable in a completely unknown way but his brain was too dizzy and numb to be bothered with thinking about in which way exactly.

As he always slept naked, there were not pants to be slipped down before he let himself drop onto the toilet seat, feeling too shaken to even pee standing up. And then he hissed when the first shots of urine left his cock. It felt sore. It also looked sore, he realised when he finally opened his eyes completely. A disturbing thought – or was it a memory? – flickered through his mind before he shoved it away and just let go, relieving himself from all the ghastly liquids he had drunk. One should think people as rich as his parents could afford better wine and champagne that really deserved this name!

When he tumbled to the sink, he avoided looking into the mirror and splashed cold water into his face after washing his hands and armpits. Then he eagerly grabbed his toothbrush and put a generous amount of toothpaste onto it. And he was about to put it in his mouth when he noticed a few things. First of all, the toothbrush he had brought was blue, but the one he was holding was green. This was also not his toothpaste brand. The guest towel he had used for drying himself off should have been dark blue. His mother had even let them embroidered with an 'S' for his rare visits home.

This towel was light blue. He set the toothbrush onto the sink and took the towel with shivering fingers. He knew what he would find before he saw the 'M'.

He tried not to scream. Bit into his arm when the scream threatened to force itself out of him.

Mycroft's towel. Mycroft's toothbrush and –paste. Mycroft's bathroom. Mycroft's bedroom. His cock looking chafed. His arse feeling…

And then then he stumbled back into the room even though it was the very last place he wanted to be right now. Saw the motionless figure on the bed, facing away from him and calmly sleeping. Grabbed his clothes that were shed everywhere, pulled his boxers out from under Mycroft's waistcoat and then fled out of the room without bothering to get dressed.

Ten minutes later he was running down the pathway from his parents' house to get to the station and enter a train that would bring him away from here and back to London, and when he was far enough away from the house in which his mother had celebrated her seventieth birthday the day before – the memories of the party and what had happened afterwards having started to trickle into his conscious slowly but steadily – he finally allowed himself to scream.

And when he realised in the train that he had forgotten his phone, in all probability in Mycroft's room, he screamed again.

*****

A locomotive was driving through Mycroft's head. Or so it felt. And sounded.

_“Mycroft? Are you up?”_

No. No locomotive. Just Mummy, knocking the door down and screaming. Only that she had knocked just very quietly, and had raised her voice just enough to make him hear her through the door.

He tried to sit up and then fell back with a groan that only got louder when his head hit the pillow that suddenly felt as if it was made of cement.

 _“Are you all right?”_ Mummy sounded concerned now.

“Yes,” he rasped out. “I'm fine.” His throat had never been so dry. And the taste in his mouth… Ghastly…

 _“You two did justice to the wine quite impressively,”_ she said with a giggle.

 _'You two'…_ For a reason he could not quite grasp Mycroft very slowly turned his head, and he could have sworn he could hear the sinews in his neck creaking. The other side of the bed was empty but completely messed up. Something started to buzz in his brain. Something… horrible… unspeakable…

 _“Your brother…”_ came through the door and Mycroft could hear his mother shake her head. _“Just left without breakfast or saying goodbye. I bet his doctor called him or this nice DI with a case. Did he say anything to_ you _before he left?”_

And with full force Mycroft remembered basically everything that had happened last night and he bit into his fist so he wouldn’t scream the house down.

This was unforgivable! The stupidest thing he had ever done! The stupidest thing _anyone_ had ever done! He would have to move to Antarctica!

Flashes of pale flesh seemed to appear in an imaginable bubble right in front of his eyes. His hands, spreading impossibly plush arse cheeks to reveal a piece of pink skin he had never been supposed to see. A full mouth wrapped around his cock, blue-green eyes winking at him while a tongue was doing the most pleasurable things to him. And then he imagined pictures of a sober Sherlock, fleeing from the house, certainly feeling horrified to the bone. There wasn’t even a hint of hope that he didn’t remember what had happened. Waking up next to him, naked and with all the traces of having had sex (for the very first time!) wouldn’t need a genius to make the right deduction…

For twenty years he'd been able to hide his forbidden feelings for his baby brother, and one drunken evening had smashed him like an insect someone was stamping on with his foot.

_“Mycroft?”_

“No,” he said weakly, desperately trying to gather every bit left of his self-control. “He didn’t say anything.”

_“Ah, this is just Sherlock. Unpredictable as always.”_

_'And I thought he's always been the grown-up'_ , Mycroft thought with a bitterness that surprised him even in his completely shaken state. And he wondered why his mother sounded so sympathetic and at the same time light-hearted towards him now after treating him like a traitor for months; his parents had been friendly to him since he had come to their house the day before but there had still been an undeniable tension that had got to him. Which had been one of the reasons why he had drunk so much. Just one though…

_“Will you be downstairs for breakfast?”_

“Yes, Mummy. Give me twenty minutes.” The sheer thought of eating made him feel sick but he guessed he might need all the strength he could get to deal with the mother of all messes he had got himself into.

How could he have done that?!

And then his gaze fell on an item on the nightstand and he groaned in agony. Sherlock's phone.

 _Awesome_ … Someone had to give it back to him and there was nobody else than him who could do it if he didn’t want to send it by mail.

He really couldn’t _wait_ to face his brother…

And when he had stumbled into the bathroom and saw the large hickey on his neck in addition to his nastily reddened eyes and lips that were obviously sore from kissing, he was very close to doing what Sherlock had done - fleeing the house… But since he had just spoken to his mother who had apparently finally chosen to forgive him for his lies about Eurus, he just couldn’t do that.

This was the worst day of his life, and he thought that _after Sherrinford_ … And it had begun with the nastiest birthday party ever.


	2. The Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short glimpse at what happened before THE NIGHT :)

_Sherlock was royally pissed off. He was bored to the bone, and he had only just got here!_

_Why had he come?! Ah, yes, because Mummy had said he had to. Dammit! How old was he that his mother still had the power to summon him to the middle of nowhere, spending hours on end with people he had either never met and never wanted to meet or had deleted from his memory? All the strange cousins and their dull spouses and annoying little children, sitting at long tables in his parents' large garden. A priest! What was a priest doing here?! Mummy's awful friends, blue-haired old ladies, chattering non-stop while managing to eat every biscuit and piece of cake in reach at the same time._

_Speaking of cake… He looked around and there he was, in full glory, in the inevitable three-piece-suit, impeccably styled and behaved, looking like some alien at a garden party. Well, he was.... And the place opposite of him was reserved for Sherlock – he could read it on the small white card._

_Well, the evil you knew was still better than the evil you didn’t know…_

_Sherlock stalked over and let himself drop onto his chair. It creaked suspiciously under him. He almost expected his brother, who had looked up from the phone he'd been staring at, to tease him with having gained weight. But ah, no. That was_ his _habit; Mycroft was above such childish behaviour of course. And he was even smiling at him!_

_“Is that your fourth piece?” Sherlock asked, glancing at the half-eaten piece of cake on his brother's plate._

_Mycroft's smile disappeared and Sherlock cursed himself. Silently and without showing it._

_“The first, if you must know. Late as always?” Mycroft snarled._

_“Have I missed anything?”_

_“The priest's speech.”_

_“Thank God…” Sherlock was surprised to see Mycroft's lips twitch. It reminded him of Sherrinford. Where Mycroft had also given him a smile… While offering to die… There had been a moment of unexpected closeness between them. And afterwards big brother had just disappeared. They had only seen each other for the meeting with their parents and the one time Mycroft had come with them to Sherrinford to listen to Sherlock and Eurus playing their violins. Certainly just to placate their parents, not to spend time with either of his horrid siblings. “I'm surprised you made it, busy as you are,” he mumbled and downed his lukewarm champagne that had been put onto the table for him. He grimaced at the taste._

_“It's our mother's seventieth birthday,” Mycroft lectured, as if Sherlock could have forgotten the reason why he had dragged himself from London to this tedious part of England._

_“Do tell. And here I was, thinking it's a funeral.” The mood was similar though and the priest was here after all as well…_

_“Did you bring her a present?”_

_“Of course. A fruit basket and some chocolate.” He hoped the latter had survived the ride in the rather hot train. It was a beautiful summer day after all. His mother had greeted him and accepted the present with a huge smile a couple of minutes ago at least. “And you? Got her the crown jewels?”_

_“A bracelet,” Mycroft said in his typical smug tone._

_“Oh, nice. Guess that will bring you back into the good books.” He regretted this sentence at once when he saw Mycroft's face. He knew their parents had still not quite forgiven him. If Eurus had recovered and behaved as normal as possible for someone who had left the paths of sanity thirty years ago, perhaps things would have been better between them, but since she was as unresponsive as she had been the first time when they had visited her daughter in the prison, they were obviously still blaming Mycroft for lying to them about her fate. As if it would have changed anything if they had known she was alive… Sherlock was sure she would have played her deadly games nonetheless; she could have not performed the one in the prison with him, John and Mycroft though if Sherlock had known about her existence. Perhaps the governor's wife and the Garridebs would still be alive then._

_It was eating at Mycroft. It was impossible to miss. But that was no excuse for disappearing out of Sherlock's life! Sherlock tried to connect with Eurus and he would have done the same with Mycroft after all they had been through together on this horrible day but his brother had chosen to pretend he didn’t exist anymore!_

_He wondered why he was so pissed off about that. All those years he had only wished Mycroft would stop sticking his long nose into his business and now that he had, Sherlock felt childishly neglected. Not that he would tell Mycroft!_

_Mycroft hadn't answered him and was stuffing the cake into his mouth now with a sour expression._

_“Be careful that you don't choke on it,” Sherlock said helpfully and received a piercing glare._

_“I will, thank you,” Mycroft hissed when he had swallowed down the last bite and put his fork onto the plate with more force than strictly necessary. “So… You and Miss Hooper are enjoying your young love now?”_

_Sherlock glowered at him, and just for a second he thought that Mycroft's tone had been not quite as gleeful as it would have to be expected. “No!” In fact it had taken a tremendously uncomfortable and a-lot-longer-than-bearable conversation to explain to her that he had not meant but faked his love-confession. It should have been rather clear as she had forced him to say it but… Women! Sherlock would never understand these gracious but completely illogical creatures!_

_“How about you?” he turned the tables. “I've got the impression that this old woman you work with, what was her name? is rather fond of you.” The thought did ghastly things to his imagination. He didn’t really think Mycroft would return his colleague's obvious feelings, but still he was strangely relieved when Mycroft grimaced._

_“She might be but I'd rather eat this fork…”_

_Sherlock almost laughed but he managed to keep a straight face. “You don't have to. See – there's more cake over there!” He had meant it as a joke but it came across totally wrong._

_“You should try it,” Mycroft hissed. “It would stuff your loose mouth.”_

_“Oh, that's something you have a lot of experience with…” Sherlock did wonder sometimes why his tongue was always running away with him when confronted with his brother. Probably because he was an overbearing, annoying, smug old borer who wrecked his last nerve… “And I wonder why you dislike the idea of dating this woman so much. At least she would appreciate all your talking about politics and power, instead of being bored by it like everybody else.”_

_Mycroft's left eyelid was visibly twitching now. “Sometimes I ask myself if some physical punishment when you were little would have perhaps worked wonders with you…”_

_That had been a low blow! Well, what_ Mycroft _could do… “Ah, I don't know. Perhaps you and Uncle Rudy should have just locked me away like Eurus…”_

_Mycroft gasped and they glared at each other. And in this moment someone asked if they wanted something to drink, and Sherlock immediately ordered wine and beer, and Mycroft told the girl to bring a bottle of whiskey, and from then on, things got worse and worse. Their bickering got nastier by the minute, and the glowering got fiercer after every well-placed jab._

_*****_

_Eventually they were the last ones seated at their table, and after one last drink they stumbled into the house and upstairs, still bickering non-stop, and when Mycroft was opening the door of the guest room that had been his childhood room, Sherlock pushed his brother inside and Mycroft turned and pushed him back, making him stumble backwards further into the rather impersonal room. Sherlock slapped his cheek - rather weakly due to his condition – and then they stared at one another with unsteady eyes before they crashed together in the middle of the room and kissed the living hell out of each other in an explosion of resolved tension before they ripped each other's clothes off to_ fuck _the living hell out of each other before they fell asleep on Mycroft's bed._


	3. An Awkward First Meeting

“Hey, you're back early. God, what the hell happened?” John, Rosie on his arm, stared at him in something that resembled shock.

Sherlock put his bag onto the ground to take off his coat. “Nothing. Was great.”

“Yeah, sure. You look as if you had spent the day in hell.”

 _No. I just spent the night having sex with **my brother**_ … For a horrible moment, Sherlock thought he had said it out loud, but John's expression didn’t change so he probably hadn’t. But the memory made him shudder once more. He had shuddered himself through the endless train ride already.

He had had sex with _Mycroft_. He had taken his cock _(his **cock**! His l **arge** cock!)_ up his arse. He had sucked him off. Mycroft had sucked him off too.

They said men couldn't perform sexual acts properly when they were heavily drunk. It seemed as if the brothers Holmes were an exception to this rule too…

Sherlock had never had sex in his life. Apart from the faked kisses for Janine (and God had he hated that, but it had been for the bloody case he should have never so much as touched) he had never so much as kissed anyone. He had hardly had any sexual urges and if they had rarely arisen, he had taken care of them with an impatient right hand; it had been nothing more than a tedious chore.

And last night he had got hard under Mycroft's ministrations. He seemed to remember he had got already rock-hard when their mouths had crashed together in this first violent kiss. He had got off with Mycroft. With Mycroft in his arse!

He could as well hang himself.

Because he had _liked_ it. Everything of it. He didn’t recall every detail; thanks to the influence of the alcohol his memory techniques hadn't worked all too well so he didn’t know what exactly he had felt when he had sucked Mycroft's _(giant!)_ dick or when Mycroft had licked his… hole… It was like watching a film that wasn't exactly HD but rather a home video from the seventies. But he remembered enough! And he was damned if the memory didn’t make his cock fill out again right now! In front of John and Rosie! This was hell! This was more hell than Mrs Hudson singing while cooking! More hell than having to tell Molly he loved her! Worse than getting whipped in Serbia! And dammit – Mycroft had watched it! Sherlock had known he was enjoying it!!! Would he want to whip Sherlock himself?!

“Sherlock! Sherlock!! You are worrying me!”

He forced himself to focus on John. “Huh?”

“I've asked you if you're hungry, about seven or eight times!”

Sherlock shook his head. He would never eat again. He would wilt and die.

Mycroft would hate him now. He would think Sherlock had seduced him on purpose and would mock Mycroft now with this experience! Or was he right now rubbing his hands in glee at Sherlock's willingness and would mock _him_ with this for eternity? Would he migrate to Karachi now, feeling ashamed of what had happened? In any way he certainly was feeling as shaken now as Sherlock was and the situation between them would be more awful than ever, and that said a lot…

All the things he had said to his brother at the party… How ghastly he had been… Just to have sex with him afterwards. Perhaps insanity was infectious? Had Sherrinford and Eurus rubbed off on him?

Rubbed off… Sherlock groaned. He would never have a straight thought again without his imagination returning to his night! His mind palace would have to be burnt down and reconstructed completely! He would forget everything! He would have to learn to tie his shoelaces and to count and to write again! He wouldn’t solve another case in his life!

John's phone started to ring and Sherlock winced at the tone that was way too loud for his still stinging headache.

“It's Greg. Strange that he calls _me_. At this time of day he won't want to go the pub so it's probably about a case. Is your phone off?” John asked before accepting the call.

“I forgot it in my parents' house,” Sherlock said tonelessly.

John gave him a surprised look before he started talking to Lestrade. Sherlock couldn’t blame him. Usually his phone was glued to his hand. But last night his hand had been glued to…

He was close to run head-first against the wall. This was the worst day of his life! And it would never get better again!

*****

Sherlock realised that two pairs of eyes were staring at him expectantly, one pair brown, the other one dark-blue. He remembered that he'd been talking until a few seconds? minutes? ago about that body lying on a side street that looked as boring as any other side street in Central London.

“Um,” he continued and cleared his throat as his voice sounded as horrible as he was feeling, “the, the body…” His voice trailed off as he noticed he had absolutely no idea what he had wanted to say. The image of an engorged knob with tiny pearls of fluid on it had filled his vision from one moment to the other. It had just popped out of nowhere! And this time in full HD!

“He was stabbed,” Lestrade prompted helpfully.

“Yes! Stabbed!”

John sighed. “We are aware as you've just lectured about the size of the knife for about ten minutes.”

“Oh, did I?”

“Yes, and it was a bit, well, redundant as the knife is lying two metres away from the body…”

“Oh. Well, I'm sure I… Sorry, I have no idea.”

John shrugged and gave Lestrade, who looked in equal measure stunned and disappointed, an apologetic look. “He's got a pretty nasty hangover. Party at the parents'… Must have been worse than a death sentence for him. No wonder he got pissed to the hairline. And now his brain is jelly.”

“I'm completely fine now!” Sherlock disagreed.

“Yes?” John raised his eyebrows in a very annoying way. “Then why are you stammering as if you'd never seen a corpse, let alone solved a crime?”

 _Dammit…_ “Because…” He had no idea what to say and then a black car stopped at the corner and he paled.

“Oh, it's your brother, isn’t it?” John said. “Wonder how he knows we're here.”

“Do you really?” Sherlock asked without even noticing what he was saying.

“Ah, well, not really. Bet he's here to bring you your phone.”

Why had he come himself? He could have sent Anthea! Or any other minion! But when Sherlock saw his brother crawl out of the car - there was no other description for his movements - he guessed that Mycroft's brain wasn’t working any better than his own…

“Why the hell is he wearing a scarf in this heat?” John's voice clearly said _'crazy Holmeses'_ and Sherlock couldn’t blame him.

And then he suffered another throwback to the night before and he saw himself sucking and biting at Mycroft's neck, and he could even taste the salty, smooth, delicious skin that had felt so warm and lively under his lips and he had bitten and sucked and Mycroft's hands had been playing with his arse and their cocks had been grinding against each other...

“Are you okay? You look as if you'd just suffered a heat stroke!” Lestrade said in a tone of deep concern, and John immediately stepped to him and laid his hand onto his forehead, which made Sherlock blush even harder. At least it didn’t make him _get_ any harder, but that was hardly possible. Thank God he was wearing his summer coat… He closed his eyes as if that wouldn’t help in any way. In fact it just made the pictures clearer…

“Yeah, you feel hot.”

 _Do tell…_ Sherlock groaned and was grabbed at the shoulder.

“Do you need to sit down? Sherlock?” John patted his cheek rather roughly and Sherlock opened his eyes just to find himself eye to eye with John, Greg… and Mycroft.

“No,” he croaked, his erection thankfully shrinking in his pants. “I'm fine. It's just… warm.”

It was impossible to pull his gaze away from his brother. He looked every bit as distressed as he was feeling, even though he had made quite an effort to appear as composed and immaculate as always. His hair was perfectly styled, he was clean shaven (Sherlock had foregone shaving altogether) and his suit looked as if he'd just got it tailored to his body. But his eyes gave him away.

He was obviously feeling deeply troubled and ashamed. But Sherlock could see more. There was sadness, and resignation, and simply every bad feeling someone's eyes could express.

Even if he had been able to think of a single word to say right now, he wouldn’t have been able to do it with John and, and… Thingamajig…Lestrade next to him. So he couldn't do anything more than gaping like a fish, while Mycroft's jaws were clenched as if he planned to never open his mouth again. He put his hand in the pocket of his light coat and presented Sherlock's phone. Sherlock took it - a tiny electric shock seeming to rattle him when their hands touched accidentally - still staring at him, and then Mycroft nodded towards Sherlock's friends, turned, and stalked back to his car, all still in complete silence. Sherlock stared at his uncharacteristically bent back as if it could tell him all the secrets of the universe.

“Damn, what was _that_?” John asked, sounding utterly astonished. “No 'good morning', no chiding you, no whatever! He hasn't shown up since Sherrinford, has he?”

Sherlock managed to shake his head, watching the black car driving off. “No,” he said quietly.

“He looked really bad! And you – couldn’t you at least say 'thank you' for him coming here just to bring you the phone?”

“Yes, really, Sherlock,” Lestrade threw in. “But I bet you had a fight yesterday, right? Party at the parents' must have included him, too. And it doesn’t look as if you'd got along very well…”

Under different circumstances Sherlock would have congratulated him for this fine piece of deduction. Right now he could only stand there like a deer in the headlights, getting the chiding from his so-called friends instead of his brother for a change. Well, it wasn’t as if John didn't chide him often enough already… And Lestrade had even done it before he had ever met John! Why did he call them his friends again?

“Yes!” John said, much too loudly for his taste and his still hammering head. “I bet you were absolutely nasty to him!”

 _Not all the time…_ “You hate him,” Sherlock mumbled, his brain finally starting to fire on at least half a cylinder. He watched Lestrade go to Donovan to talk to her about the murder. At least one of these hyenas gone…

“Nonsense. He's annoying as hell and smug like the worst of them but that's what you are, too. Can't hide you're brothers…” Somehow this made Sherlock cringe. “You must have been very awful yesterday for him to behave like this. Tomorrow, when you feel better, you'll go to him and apologise.”

“What?! No way!” Sherlock raised his hands to his head after his little outburst, groaning.

“But yes, you will! You're running to Sherrinford all the time to play the violin with your ghastly sister! Compared to her Mycroft is really a sweetheart!”

Sherlock tried not to choke on his tongue. “But he won't want to see me,” he said in a voice that didn’t resemble his, totally rightfully. In fact he was sure Mycroft would have rather buried himself alive than talk to him.

“Bullshit. He's always tried to reach out to you. In his own, very strange way… He even got you out of the mess with Magnussen!”

“Only because he needed me for the threat that seemed to come from Moriarty.”

John snorted. “That was his excuse! I'm a hundred percent sure that he'd have got you out of this mission, and if he would have had to make up a reason why you're needed here.”

Sherlock had told the doctor that he had been supposed to die on this mission when everything between them had been settled again. And it had left a very weird feeling in him that Mycroft had sent him there. After all that had happened afterwards he had not really had the time or energy or mind to think it through but yeah, John was probably right. Mycroft wouldn’t have let him die in Eastern Europe, Moriarty or not. But when Sherlock had entered the plane, he had really thought he would never return, or return in a coffin… And it had been just one more - and above all a very big one - resentment towards his brother in a lifelong dirt road plastered with resentments. He saw himself sitting in the plane again, thinking he would never see John and Mary again, never meet their baby, never see anyone and anything near and dear to him. It had felt horrible…

And he also recalled how he had entered the plane without one more look at his brother after asking him to be left alone with John, and a feeling he had never had towards Mycroft spread in his stomach. It was shame.

John went on talking, not noticing any of his troublesome thoughts but poking into the wound nonetheless. “You've always been ghastly to him! And still all he cared about was you!”

“You were not much nicer,” Sherlock mumbled.

“No. I wasn't. But he's not _my_ brother. And our first meeting was already rather… weird… and I basically followed you into treating him like I wouldn’t treat most of my enemies. But he isn’t an enemy. He's a really decent man; Sherrinford should be proof enough.”

Sherlock remembered very well this contemptuous _'What goes around, comes around'_ John had uttered when Lestrade had told them Eurus had locked Mycroft into her old cell. He didn’t remind him of it, instead he blurted, “If you're so stunned by him, go and marry him,” and then he blushed again furiously. For a crazy moment he imagined John trying to bond with Mycroft, and Mycroft responding positively to it. Doing with John what he had done with _him_ …

He didn’t like this image _one bit_.

John looked a bit sour, too. “So, text him.”

“What?”

John nodded with a stern expression. “Tomorrow you'll go to him like I said. And now you're going to text him to thank him for the phone.”

Mycroft would probably squeak if he saw an incoming text from Sherlock. But John had this non-nonsense look again… And it _had_ been nice of Mycroft to come here and give him the phone.

So Sherlock fumbled his phone out of his pocket and typed the text with shivering fingers, having to correct twice.

_Hello Mycroft. Thank you for bringing me my phone. SH_

“Show me!” John demanded before he could send the message, and Sherlock felt the urge to tell him he wasn't his mother or father but with gritted teeth, he held his phone so John could read the text.

The doctor seemed to be content. “It's not exactly warm-hearted but that would probably just give him a heart attack…”

 _Oh, if you only knew…_ Sherlock fired off the text and stored his phone again, having the image of a shocked and shaken Mycroft on his mind.

“Want to try again if you can solve this case?” John asked him, his tone a little milder now. Sherlock nodded. He would try. “Fine,” John said. “And then we'll go home so you can recover from your exciting day yesterday and have some fine cold water to cool yourself down.”

Sherlock winced again. He couldn’t imagine ever not wincing again when hearing something even remotely suggestive.

And he had absolutely no idea how to face his brother the next day. He would need a plan but he had no plan which plan it could be.

This was just the most fucked up mess he had ever got into, and that said a lot.


	4. Sad Mycroft

Mycroft entered the building on shaking legs. He had worked here for so long that he never even noticed anymore that he was coming into the centre of power of this kingdom. And even if he had, he wouldn’t have cared one bit right now.

He had dropped his phone in the car when he had received Sherlock's text. It had taken him ages to dare open it, and he had read it with a hammering heart, feeling very relieved at the polite but not overly friendly tone. As far as one could speak of a 'tone' in a text.

A wild hope had hit him: had Sherlock perhaps forgotten everything about their night? Did he think they had only slept next to one another? The hope had lasted for the best part of one second before he had dismissed it. Sherlock had looked horribly frightened of him, or rather of what he obviously remembered very well. He had stared at the scarf around Mycroft's neck without being surprised about it. He hadn't asked if Mycroft was hiding a triple chin with it. He had looked terrified…

And Mycroft felt more ashamed than ever. He had exploited his baby brother's drunken state to get what Sherlock would have never given him in a sober state of mind. He had done unspeakable things with him. Fine, he had been heavily drunk as well. He had not been able to make a reasonable decision. But that was a lame excuse! He shouldn’t have drunk so much in the first place! He was the reasonable one! Even if Eurus was the true smart one and Sherlock was the grown-up…

Since Sherrinford, and actually long before, he had indulged in a glass of whiskey – or two – after one more challenging day. But he had never in his life lost control like this. Yes, Sherlock had been very nasty to him. But he had given that back quite well… He deeply regretted so many of the things he had said to his brother yesterday. And a man like him, with such a responsible position – he winced at the expression – and as the older brother, he should have known better than to get pissed like a sailor, and on his old mother's birthday above all! It was a miracle that Mummy had even forgiven him for Eurus after this horrible behaviour at her party. She had not said it explicitly, but the last doubt he had had about it had vanished when he'd had breakfast with his parents this morning. They had been all compassionate and kind. One weight off his shoulders. But it had been replaced by a far heavier one of course.

Sherlock remembered what they had done. But this text showed him that he didn’t want to mention it. That was good news! He got really excited at the epiphany. Sherlock's text was a code! It was saying, _'I know what happened and I don't want to talk about it. Let's forget it. And I'm thanking you for bringing the phone to show you I want to be on better terms with you'!_

Mycroft's mood brightened up while he almost ran down the corridor to his office. Yes, that could work! They would not meet for a long while and when they did meet sometime, they would pretend this night had never happened and get closer than ever since Sherlock had grown up in a completely harmless, brotherly way!

And then Anthea squeaked when he burst into her office (which was leading to his own) as she hadn't expected him today (he had planned to stay longer with his parents but he just couldn’t do it and had decided to do some work on his day off so the pile of work wouldn’t be even higher tomorrow morning) and his mood fell approximately four-hundred stories when he remembered that he had desired Sherlock since his brother had been fifteen and he didn’t _want_ to go on as if nothing had happened and that it would _kill_ him to be with him, knowing what he'd had that night, what he'd had just once and then in a completely drunken state above all, and not be allowed to touch him ever again! And still of course he would do it as he would never want to lose Sherlock completely, and because he loved to be in his presence, no matter how painful it was. In fact, _Sherlock_ and _pain_ were almost synonyms for him…

“Sir, sorry, I just didn’t expect you,” Anthea said, reaching up to her heart. She had been sitting at her desk, focused on her computer screen.

“No, _I'm_ sorry,” Mycroft said darkly. “I just came to take care of the most urgent matters.”

“Of course. So… It wasn’t that nice? At home?”

Only Anthea had the guts and the right to ask him about any private matters. Not that he had any private life apart from Sherlock (in a brotherly way…) and the parents he hardly ever met. But he taking off two days had been that unheard of that he had explained to her why he needed the very short holidays. And he trusted her. Perhaps she was the only human he really trusted. “No,” he mumbled now. “Wasn't all that nice.” He nodded at her and disappeared into his office.

*****

Anthea stared at the closed door and sighed. Her boss was the most fascinating and intelligent and interesting man on earth. And he also was the most composed and controlled man anyone could think of. If he was in such a condition, it could only be the fault of one person and she had more than once wanted to shoot him to the moon.

 _Sherlock_. Only _he_ could upset Mycroft Holmes that much. Would he never grow up?!

Grumbling, she concentrated on her work again, but her heart was bleeding for her poor boss, suffering once more because of his brat of a brother. Mycroft deserved so much better than to be treated by him like dirt! But Sherlock would never get how much he meant to his brother…

And why had Mycroft worn a scarf? Had Sherlock even… _choked him_?! It wouldn’t surprise her in the least. She remembered very well how Mycroft had shown up with an injured arm after getting in a fight with his drugged brother… And not much later Sherlock had drugged _him_ to steal his laptop to offer state secrets to a blackmailer he had then even shot! This man didn’t deserve a brother like Mycroft!

With a sigh she texted her girlfriend, Jeannie. She needed some nice conversation now. She just wished Mycroft would get some TLC too. He deserved it!


	5. Contemplations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will be further apart from now on but as it's Sunday, have one more now! :)

Sherlock took the deepest breath of his life. It made him cough…

Perhaps Mycroft had already seen that he was pacing outside his front door. The camera was hard to miss. Mycroft had certainly increased his security after he and John and Wiggins' people had broken into his house. Well, Sherlock had a key after all… Mycroft hadn't even demanded it back. So he must have changed the locks. Or hadn't he?

Sherlock hadn't tried if it still fitted. He didn’t want to upset Mycroft. That was not why he had come here. Why he had _actually_ come here was a mystery to him though. Because John had told him to, yes. But he could have told him to shut up and ignore his order. John may have been an army captain but Sherlock was not a soldier. He didn’t like to disappoint John though. He'd never had and since they had reconciled after all that happened around and after Mary's death, he liked it even less. Their friendship had suffered a few deep cracks over the years. Perhaps they would never heal completely. But Sherlock knew his loose tongue had indirectly caused Mary's death even though he had never wanted this to happen. It had been Mary's decision to jump in front of the bullet. But without him insulting Norbury, the bullet would in all probability have never flown. So he had and still did understand John's wrath and his outburst of violence. But it had meant another crack, the deepest of all…

For the first time he thought that John could be very grateful that Mycroft had not been told about his violence. Or had he? There had been no cameras in the room when John had attacked him. Still – Mycroft knew almost everything, if it was logical for him to know it or not. So perhaps he did know it and had not avenged him because Sherlock had forgiven John?

Avenged?! What kind of thought was that! Mycroft was not some superhero who avenged the weak against the brutal. And Sherlock was not weak! He had just decided to not fight back! And why was he thinking of revenge and superheroes now! He needed to talk to Mycroft! About whatever! That was why he was here! He and Mycroft had had sex with each other and they had to talk about it!

 _Oh God_ … He should just _leave_. Mycroft would never want to talk about that with him; he certainly didn’t even want to see him. Ever again! And during the day Sherlock had forced himself to think about what had made him do it, had made him suck his brother's cock and let him take him, drunk or not, but somehow these thoughts had got little legs and run away from him as fast as they could, and he had ended up doing experiments and begging Lestrade for being allowed to look at cold cases instead – everything to not have to think about why he had fucked with his own brother! It was insane to show up here and demand to talk about something that neither of them wanted to talk about!

He made a few steps away from the door and then he turned around and attacked the bell button.

*****

With a mixture of horror, anxiety, sympathy, curiosity, affection and sheer terror Mycroft was watching his snarky baby brother pacing in front of his door, obviously struggling with himself to no end and trying to find the courage to ring the doorbell or to just flee back to Baker Street.

On the small screen of the security camera, Mycroft couldn’t see his face all too clearly but he was sure Sherlock was here because he did want to repair their relationship, and the sex-night had only been the last of so many cracks it had got over the course of at least twenty years.

They had been close, oh yes. When Sherlock had been little, Mycroft had been his hero. And Mycroft had enjoyed his adoration and had loved to share all his knowledge with him, had taught him everything from swimming to making deductions, and he still remembered Mummy's rather sour expression when she casually reminded everybody that Sherlock's first word had been 'Myof'.

Time, Sherlock's change to a completely introverted, almost unapproachable boy after Victor had disappeared, the inevitable developments of Mycroft having to attend school (which had still been bearable as Mycroft had been able to be home in the afternoon) and then university in Cambridge, far away from home, and eventually starting to work for the government in London, had brought them apart step by step. While Mycroft had been trying to network even in his early uni years, Sherlock had become grumpier and grumpier, spending all the time alone with disturbing experiments and eventually taking drugs. It had been more than physical distance between them, both developing into completely different directions.

They had drifted further and further apart until their relationship had been frosty to say the least. Mycroft had been there when Sherlock had ended in a drug den, too high to even find his way home to the shabby places he currently resided in, and Sherlock would spit and snarl when he dragged him out of houses he wouldn’t have wanted to be seen dead in. And the fact that the threat of an early death was Sherlock's constant companion had terrified him to no end. He loved his brother dearly, and by the time Sherlock had discovered hard drugs, he had been completely and utterly in love with him (which of course meant that _his_ constant companion was shame). So the thought of losing his brilliant little brother to the drugs had terrified him beyond any brotherly care and to hide his awful feelings, he had been rougher and more condescending to Sherlock than he would have had to be, and in return Sherlock had taken to permanently insulting and mocking him, later refusing to take his cases, even taking to physical violence once, and every nasty word had been like a cut into his heart, the brutal twisting of his arm and being slammed against the wall causing a pain that had gone way beyond the physical hurt.

So the relationship of the Holmes brothers had spiralled to something increasingly cold and hurtful, and it had not got any better with the appearance of Doctor John Watson (of whom Mycroft was stupidly jealous), the unholy Adler-affair (and Mycroft was well aware that Sherlock had even saved this worthless woman's life after humiliating her in front of him), let alone the mess with John's wife, the awful assassin, and Sherlock's ice-cold killing of Magnussen for exactly this woman's sake after betraying Mycroft and the country. And the Eurus-disaster with Sherlock's and John's breaking into his house and scaring the shit out of him and the horrible day in Sherrinford had been the icing on the inedible cake.

All in all their brotherly relationship had been wrecked for a very long time; just very infrequently they had been on better terms, like when Mycroft had helped Sherlock with the Fall and the Moriarty-affair. There had been some nice moments he would forever cherish in his undying love for his little brother – only to be followed by more hurt and misunderstandings.

And after the party, which had been so full of insults and pain, all the smouldering resentments (because of course they had never, ever talked to each other about the reasons for their estrangement) had made them clash in a way that was so unthinkable and unexpected that Mycroft would probably never understand how this could have happened. He would have understood physical violence - coming from Sherlock, not him. He would have never raised his hand against him. And if he remembered correctly, Sherlock had even slapped him in the face, rather weakly because he had not been very stable on his feet. But then… _this_ … Where had it come from? Well, he knew very well that he had desired Sherlock for decades. But Sherlock?! Why had he done this? It was inexplicable. Certainly not because he deep inside… wanted it? No way. And still it had happened.

And now he was here. Mycroft had expected him to come eventually, after receiving his text. But not the next day! It was way too early for them to pretend nothing had happened! Damn, he still had a fat bruise on his neck! And God, had it felt good to receive it… His memories of this night weren't clear at all; just flashes of what had happened and how he had been feeling were left. He was sure he would be able to reconstruct almost everything – if he dared. But what good would it do? It would just remind him what he would never have again. In any way he did remember Sherlock sucking his neck like an exceptionally hungry incubus. And how he had sucked his dick as if his life depended on it… Mycroft shoved these thoughts away. He had to forget all this!

Perhaps Sherlock wasn’t here to repair their relationship. Perhaps he was here to accuse him of having taken advantage of him! To yell at him! To say things that were much worse and hurtful than anything he had ever said to him before! And Mycroft knew he deserved each and every one of the harsh words Sherlock might use to tell him what he was thinking of him… He knew it would break his heart, but what was one more heartbreak, inflicted on him by Sherlock, carelessly and indifferently.

Then Sherlock turned to leave and his heart clenched in disappointment. He was hopelessly afraid of facing his brother, of what Sherlock would tell him, but to see him go was even worse.

And then Sherlock turned and rang the doorbell so thoroughly as if he wanted to penetrate the wall with his forefinger…

Mycroft stood up, his legs feeling as if he was drunk again, which he decidedly wasn't. No whiskey after work tonight, oh no. Perhaps he should have had some…

Slowly he went to let Sherlock in, and perhaps it was a good sign that Sherlock hadn't just used his key or broken the lock?

Could they handle this in a civilized way? Mycroft huffed out a laugh. That would have been a first…

He was rather sure that whatever was about to happen now, it would change their relationship forever. Either it would allow them a new start – and he would happily accept it, no matter how painful it would be to be close to Sherlock but not close enough – or it would destroy every hint of a bond forever. And he didn’t know how he was supposed to live with the second alternative because Sherlock was not only the man he loved, the brother he had always cared for and the only person who truly touched his soul. He was his whole life.

He had reached the door, and after taking a very deep breath, he opened it up.


	6. Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I just finished another short chapter, I think I can risk updating :)

The first thing Sherlock's look fell at when he had stepped into the house, slamming the door with his heel without really noticing, was the large bruise on Mycroft's neck, uncovered this time, which was a clear indicator that Mycroft had known who was ringing the doorbell (and at least he had let him in, hadn't he?). It looked black and ugly and rather painful.

And wasn't that typical for him? Even when they had had _sex_ , he had hurt his brother… But the sex hadn't been exactly tender after all… At least not the first round… And when he remembered correctly, there hadn't even been a real break between the first – which had begun with rough kissing and groping and arse licking and ended with Mycroft fucking him – and the second one, when they had sucked each other – and then Mycroft had fucked him a second time…

Glimpses of this encounter were flashing before his eyes now, clearer than before now that he was facing his brother, who hadn't said a word so far and was staring at him in a way that indicated that he was seeing exactly the same pictures now. And they were terrifying him…

Sherlock didn’t think about it. He made a step forward to reach out to Mycroft's blemished neck. “I'm sorry,” he began, and he was. Sorry for marking his brother in such an embarrassing way, forcing him to wear a scarf on a hot summer day, and dear God – how had he faced their parents with this ugly bruise?! Sorry for inflicting pain on him even when they had done something that should decidedly not be painful, apart from certain games Sherlock only had theoretical knowledge of, like he'd had with 'normal' sex before their encounter.

Before he could touch his brother, Mycroft stepped back, and his face was a mask of anxiety. “Oh Sherlock, _I'm_ sorry! This is unforgivable! I thought you'd come to either accuse me of taking advantage of your state or showing me that we can pretend this never happened and be on better terms; at least I hoped for that… And now you even apologise! It's much more than I deserve!”

It felt like a slap in the face even though Sherlock didn’t know why. His brother regretted this night, well, of course he did. He, the Iceman, had lost control in a way unheard of for him, and had broken the law by having sex with his own brother.

And Sherlock felt hurt by his regret. Because dammit – he had been shocked after realising what had happened of course and the thought of facing Mycroft had terrified him – but he did not regret it. Or perhaps he did regret only that he couldn’t remember it all. Couldn't remember how he had felt when kissing Mycroft for the first time or when Mycroft had breached him with his large cock. And perhaps he regretted that there had not been any tenderness afterwards, just two worn-out men collapsing on the bed and falling asleep without even really realising what they had done.

He slowly shook his head. “I came here for neither of this, Mycroft. Why should I accuse you of anything? We were _both_ drunk and you didn’t force me to do anything. And pretend it never happened? With our brains? I can delete a lot of things from my mind palace but believe me – I would totally fail at deleting this. And I don't even want to!” He recalled all too well that he had thought he had to bring his mind palace down to spare him being remembered of this night by all the accidental puns John was providing all the time. What a stupid idea…

“What?!” Mycroft stared at him as if he'd grown a second head. “How can you not…? Why should you want to remember this! You've hated me for ages.”

“I've never hated you. I hated that you left me for uni and then your bloody job, yes. I hated it when you kept on telling me to do better and rolled your eyes at me as if I was a stupid child. I hated when you interfered with my plans and knew everything better. But I've never hated _you_.”

They were staring at each other for a long moment. Mycroft clearly had no idea how to respond to this outburst.

And then Sherlock closed the last distance between them. “Do you really regret it? Have you never thought about it before it happened?” Because this must be the real reason for Mycroft's guilty feelings, didn’t it? He had wanted it. Had probably wanted it for a very long time. Some quick glances at Sherlock's body suddenly made sense. He had thought Mycroft was monitoring if he was eating regularly. Or taking drugs regularly… But in fact Mycroft had checked him out!

“No!” Mycroft hissed, avoiding his look. “Never.”

“For a politician of sorts, you're a very bad liar.”

Mycroft's head turned with force, his eyes were glistening with desperation. “It's wrong, Sherlock. I should have never wanted you like this.”

“You didn’t choose to. It just happened. You've always tried to protect me, mostly from myself.”

Mycroft nodded. “And you hated it.”

“I did,” Sherlock agreed. “But I can see your good intentions. Now… And there's something you don't have to protect me from…”

“What?”

“You.”

Mycroft shook his head vehemently. “You can't mean that. You can't mean that we should… do it again?!”

And yes. _That's_ why Sherlock had come here… It had taken Mycroft to speak it out for him to get it. Well, it was really something to wrap one's mind around after all… He was still nervous and frightened and horrified by these sudden developments but yeah. That's what he wanted. “I do. It was my first time! My first real kiss. My first sex. And I can't even remember it in detail. Isn't _that_ the real shame?” _And I want it, Mycroft. I want to feel you and touch you and make love to you without alcohol numbing me…_ It was impossible to speak _that_ out now. Because he couldn’t explain it, even to himself, let alone to Mycroft. All he knew was that he wanted more of what they'd had and what had been horrifying him to no end. It had to be based on sentiment, that sinister chemical defect found in the losing side, this dangerous disadvantage that had never got him before! Only that it didn’t feel like losing. Quite the opposite. But dangerous it could very well be… But when had Sherlock Holmes ever shied away from danger?

His brother was terrified nevertheless. “No, no, I could never…! I would ruin you! Corrupt you! I just can't!”

And then Sherlock cupped his cheeks and kissed him, and for a long moment, Mycroft kissed him back, and his lips were soft and sweet and still a bit sore from their last furious kissing-round.

Then Mycroft broke the kiss, his look dazed but his face terrified, and Sherlock immediately stepped back, his heart feeling heavy. “I'm sorry, brother. I didn’t want to force myself on you.” That would have been the ultimate hurt after all he had already done to Mycroft over the years. He just couldn’t do anything right, could he?

Mycroft's voice was shivering when he spoke so quiet that Sherlock could hardly understand him. “But I do want it… It's just…”

Sherlock, feeling relieved and excited, nodded. “You feel you _shouldn’t_ want it. It makes you feel dirty and guilty.” He winced when Mycroft cringed. _Dammit!_ “But it's not!” he hurried to add. “No need to feel guilty! I want it. You want it. I don't care what the law says. Hell, have you ever noticed me caring about that? Let alone morals and _what-would-Mummy-say_?!”

Mycroft was panting now. “No. Yes. I know! But… It's too much, it's…”

“It's all right.” Sherlock stepped closer to him again and patted his arm soothingly. “We don't have to do anything. Now, I mean! We can just be… with each other and talk and…” He recalled what Mycroft had said what he had thought Sherlock had come for. “Not pretend it didn’t happen. But perhaps… get to know each other better before… we do it again.” And wasn't it such a shame that they really didn’t know each other on a really personal level? At all? Well, probably Mycroft knew him better than he knew Mycroft, with all the surveillance and brain-wash…

Mycroft was gazing at him. “You really want this?”

And Sherlock recalled all the nasty things he had said to this man, especially two days ago, the man who had lorded over him his entire adult life and who had saved his arse more times than he could count, most of the times to his displeasure. The man who had taught him so much and demanded from him to be a good boy in return. Sherlock had snorted at him, rolled his eyes at him, pushed him against the wall of 221B in his drugged state and insulted him in every possible way, this man who had been ready to die at his hands so he wouldn’t have to murder his best friend. The man who had been a constant presence in his life, his mind palace and his entire being.

And so he answered, full-heartedly, “Yes, Mycroft. I want this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "ruining and corrupting" part is a deep bow to the lovely SlytherinsDragon and her great fic https://archiveofourown.org/works/19072840/chapters/45308485  
> :)


	7. An Interrupted Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They talk about a few touchy subjects.

They sat down in Mycroft's living room, on the couch, with quite a lot of space between them – Mycroft's choice, not his.

“Care for a drink?” Mycroft asked him and blushed furiously the next moment.

Sherlock chuckled. “Want to make me drunk again?”

“No! I didn’t! And I…”

“Calm down, brother! I'm joking!”

Mycroft huffed out a laugh. “It's not easy to, you know, get acquainted to the new Sherlock.”

Sherlock grinned. “Nothing new about him, Mycroft. Yes, okay, maybe a bit new…”

Mycroft got up and came back with two glasses of water. Sherlock took one with a smile. “Cheers!”

Mycroft blushed again but he grinned wryly and returned the toast. They both drank and then set their glasses onto the table. And Sherlock realised that he had no idea how to start this. How did one get to know the brother one had known forever and still didn’t know? Should he ask Mycroft about his job? His tailor? What he liked to eat? These were all fishy subjects, weren't they? Mycroft would think he was mocking him. “Why did you disappear?” he blurted all at once, and Mycroft stared at him with his mouth open. “After Sherrinford!” Sherlock added. Because in fact this had been the main reason for his nastiness at the party.

And Mycroft seemed to understand that without elaboration. He nodded. “I… I don't really know. Perhaps I thought… I had given away too much of my feelings in this horrible moment when you were supposed to shoot me…”

Sherlock was close to smashing his hand against his forehead. Yes. If he had just paid more attention, he would have seen it then. Mycroft had lowered his shields like never before, thinking it was his last moment on earth. “How could you think I would really kill you?”

A wry and well-deserved smile crossed Mycroft's face. “Really, Sherlock? Should I have expected you would shoot your beloved John instead?”

Sherlock knew he was right. He'd had every right to expect Sherlock would fire at him. And how sad was that? “I'd have never done that. Neither of you. I knew what she wanted the moment she said I'd need the gun later. So I made my plan.”

“And let me think you'd do it…”

“I had to! I wanted to surprise her so she would be more shocked!” But it had been a mean move, hadn't it? Letting Mycroft believe he would kill him. It was their relationship in a nutshell – Mycroft the brave and the decent, Sherlock the reckless and the ruthless. “I'm sorry.” He huffed out a laugh. “I guess we'll spend a long time with me saying sorry for almost everything under the sun. You name it, I probably did it to you.”

To his surprise Mycroft gave him a warm smile. “I don't want this, Sherlock. I'm fine with what you just said. And I know you had to play along, letting her believe she was winning. All that matters is that you got us out there alive and unharmed, more or less. I believe John suffered quite a bit in this well…” He had said it in his calm, friendly tone, but Sherlock could hear the hint of glee.

“You know what he did. To me,” he concluded, and Mycroft nodded.

“I do. Lestrade told me. John had confessed it to him after he left the hospital. I'll never forgive him for that. Culverton Smith could have killed you in your weak state. He did so much harm to you. I saw the medical reports.”

“But you didn’t…” Sherlock broke off but Mycroft understood at once.

“…take revenge? Let him disappear from the earth? I was tempted. Very tempted. But I knew you're convinced you deserved this, and believe me, Sherlock, you didn’t. But John means so much to you and I knew if I took him to task, you would just hate me even more for it.”

“I don't…”

“…hate me, I know. Now I know.”

“I don't hate John either,” Sherlock hurried to add, just in case Mycroft would think that he could have his way with his friend now.

“I'm well aware. You see him as 'family'.” His voice was sad when he said this. “But Sherlock – if he does it again, I won't let him get away with it. That's a promise.”

Somehow this serious statement did things to Sherlock's heart. Good things… “I know. And he won't. He goes to therapy again. Which you know of course…”

Mycroft smiled. “I do. I hope it will cure him from his anger issues. I hope your relationship won't get that troubled ever again.”

Sherlock returned the smile and he realised that he was feeling very good in his brother's presence, talking with him like this. He could definitely get used to this. Even without the sex. But he still wanted it! A lot! “I'm sure we'll be fine. So… You stayed away because you thought I had deduced your feelings for me?”

Mycroft shrugged. “I knew the possibility was not that high. You would have probably let me know if you had. But… There was a lot to deal with. The deaths of people who would still be alive if I had had better control over Eurus. Our parents' wrath. You bonding with her…”

Sherlock blushed. And once again he had not wasted a thought on how Mycroft had to feel about his actions. “I… wanted to help her. I won't go there again if you mind me doing it.”

“It's okay. If you get anything out of his, go on.”

Of course Sherlock didn’t. Eurus did not talk. She just smiled and played her violin. And then he realised what Mycroft had said before. “It wasn't your fault. The people in the prison disobeyed your orders. It was their mistake and Eurus' choice.” But he knew Mycroft would go on believing that he was responsible for the mayhem their sister had created. It was just him to believe he was responsible for basically everything. It had annoyed Sherlock before. But now he realised that it was in fact a treat. And his brother had so many treats!

He moved on the sofa until he was sitting very close to his brother. “I like you,” he said, for once not caring about sounding sentimental. “And I know that when we get to spend more time with each other, I will like you even more.” The days of them mocking about sentiment were over, not only for him he was sure. He was simply stating facts after all.

Mycroft looked at him as if he was close to start crying, and Sherlock brushed a chaste kiss onto his cheek, indulging in his brother's scent of eau de cologne and clean, warm skin. Mycroft turned his head and kissed Sherlock's cheek in return.

“I like you too, Sherlock. And nothing would make me happier than to spend as much time with you as possible.”

Which wasn't a lot of course. Mycroft worked all day and Sherlock had cases at all hours of the day. But they would make time. “It's so much nicer to be nice to you,” he realised, and Mycroft laughed.

He slung his arm around Sherlock's shoulder, and it felt very pleasant. “I'm very glad to hear that.”

And then Sherlock's phone signalised a call and he cursed. “It's Lestrade,” he said darkly after looking at the display, and he was about to reject the call.

Mycroft seemed very pleased by this but he shook his head. “Take it. Take his case. We have time.”

And Sherlock understood that Mycroft didn’t want them to rush anything and perhaps give him the opportunity to back out if he wanted it. But this wouldn’t happen. He would solve the case and he would be back tomorrow if Mycroft had time for him.

Getting to know his brother better would be Sherlock's most important case. Getting into his pants again would be his reward. This and his brother's affection. Because Mycroft was great. It had taken him a long time to realise it but now that he had finally got it, he wouldn’t let him get away again.


	8. Dropping By In Whitehall

“Hello, Anthea. Is he here?”

Sherlock swallowed when he was glared at by narrowed eyes. He had been aware that Mycroft's PA, all dark-haired attractiveness and efficiency, wasn't overly fond of him, but he wasn't sure why she looked _that_ pissed off now.

“He didn’t ask you to come here,” she said matter-of-factly, rising from her chair and walking around her desk as if she planned to tackle him if he tried to enter his brother's office.

“Um, no. But I'm bringing lunch!” Sherlock bared his teeth in a wide and hopefully placating grin and raised the hand with the paper bag. He had got them two thick tuna sandwiches when Mycroft had texted him that he would be in two long meetings today and would just eat quickly at his desk between them. He should be finished with the first one now so it had to be the perfect time to drop by.

“But… why?” Now she was looking rather shocked.

“Why not?” Sherlock shot back rather lamely. He wanted to spend some time with his brother; it was as simple as that but he didn’t think it would be a very good idea to say it. She wouldn’t believe it anyway…

In the morning he had solved two barely-7-cases while texting back and forth with Mycroft, who had been preparing his meetings and still found time for him. They had written about nothing spectacular, just how their days were going and how stupid the goldfish in general and certain people in particular were. And Sherlock had caught himself grinning at the phone several times, hiding his amusement from John as well as he could. And when the doctor had left for his shift in the clinic after Sherlock had solved the second boring case, he had spontaneously decided to surprise his brother. He hadn't expected meeting the Spanish Inquisition before though…

“Look, if he's in there,” he gestured at Mycroft's office door, “I'd like to go in now and feed him and then I'll leave him to his duties again. Please?” Perhaps he should have brought a sandwich for the PA, too, but he assumed she only ate little children and nails…

She was stilled looking at him with an expression of deep suspicion. Probably because he hadn't shown up that often with a meal for her boss over the years. Or ever. What he _hadn't_ expected even though he probably should have was her next question. “Do you know anything about this scarf, Sherlock?” He was caught off guard, and he blushed furiously.

 _Dammit! She_ couldn’t know anything! But then she glared even deadlier at him and he realised that she had drawn a very wrong conclusion – she thought he had hit or strangled Mycroft in all probability. It filled him with deep shame as he would not forget his real violence against his brother, and she hadn't done either. And of course he couldn’t tell her the real reason for Mycroft hiding his neck. He fleetingly wondered if she would find it worse and more appalling if she knew he had sucked a bruise into the sensitive skin in the heat of drunken passion than thinking he had viciously hurt him.

It was Mycroft who saved him from giving an answer (and what answer should he have given considering his flushed cheeks that spoke of his guilt so he could have hardly told her he'd had nothing to do with it?). The door of his office opened and Mycroft stood there, his face indifferent but with a glimmer in his eyes that told Sherlock he was indeed happy to see him. And rather amused about his merciless PA being at his throat. “It's all right, Anthea,” he said to the frightening woman, who was standing between them with her arms crossed.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “I promise I won't bite him.” _Dammit oh dammit!!!_ He blushed even harder and wondered if his head would explode any moment, but there was a (damn cute) little twitch around Mycroft's mouth and Anthea furrowed her brows in slight confusion but she looked at least a bit less hostile thanks to Mycroft's soothing tone, and then Sherlock was finally slipping into his brother's office, glad to escape her disturbing scrutiny and thinking it had probably not been his best spontaneous idea to surprise his brother in the middle of a work day, facing Cerberus, the three-headed hellhound…

*****

“She's scary,” Sherlock mumbled when he sat down in the visitor's chair.

Mycroft was watching him in awe. Sherlock had come here! He had brought him lunch! It was a real miracle!

He had not slept a lot the night before, thinking of nothing but his brother and their promising conversation. He had still felt guilty of course, knowing they should just work on their brotherly relationship instead of planning to… get together as lovers?! Was that even possible? Even the fact aside that a sexual relationship between brothers was against the law (and yes, even _he_ thought this law was rather stupid regarding two consenting male adults who couldn’t reproduce) – were they compatible in any way? Sherlock was chaos, rebellion, sentiment (even though he might deny that) and unpredictability, a man of action and speed and the inability of cherishing calmness and contemplation and fine food. Mycroft on the other hand was intrigue, power and silence, a man who enjoyed peace and quiet whenever possible and who made his decisions preferably from behind a desk instead of running through the streets of London, at best with a slice of cake and a good cup of Earl Grey. They were fire and water and that was one of the reasons why they had drifted apart a long time ago.

But of course he had always been drawn to Sherlock's liveliness, had always admired him for his endless curiosity and energy. He was exhausting at times for sure but Mycroft adored him for it. He just didn’t know what Sherlock could really see in _him_ … So he was well aware that Sherlock could get bored by him anytime and especially after he'd had his (sober) way with him. But if they managed to maintain a better relationship as brothers, he would already be happy and perhaps if they did have sex again, he would be able to feed on it for the rest of his life and not leer after his brother anymore. He would never even try to demand anything from Sherlock that he didn’t want to give him; after all Sherlock's safety had always been his priority.

But he did want more, God help him! He wanted to explore Sherlock's beauty and fulfil every sexual fantasy his brother might have. Not even mentioning his own… He had dreamt of having this chance for so long and now that he had the opportunity, he wouldn’t back away. He just hoped he wouldn’t end up with a broken heart. But some things were worth that risk, he assumed.

“She's the best PA on earth and very loyal,” he said now. “Of course the scarf must make her crazy.” She had not asked him about it, probably thinking it would be crossing a line, and it would have. But he should have expected her to think Sherlock had something to do with it. And of course she'd had to draw wrong conclusions…

Sherlock had opened the paper bag in the meantime and offered him one of the sandwiches. “Crazy suits her… Here. I hope you like that.”

“That's so considerate of you! Thank you! It smells very good.”

Sherlock smiled, looking happy, and Mycroft could have stared at this smile forever. “What did you tell Mummy and Father? About…” He gestured at Mycroft's neck.

Mycroft felt his cheeks flush. “I, um… sneaked into the main bathroom and found some makeup…”

Sherlock stared at him and then he started to giggle. “You put Mummy's makeup on the hickey?”

“Well, yes! I didn’t have a scarf there to hide it with.” Of course he could have tried to borrow one of his father's scarfs but that would have raised even more questions. “It looked rather strange but they didn’t notice.” The colour had been too dark for his pale skin and he had spent breakfast with sitting rather uncomfortably so this side of his neck was facing away from his parents. But this morning had been so unpleasant that it hadn't made it much worse…

Sherlock got up and the next moment he carefully slid the scarf down. Mycroft had got used to wearing it by now, he realised. It felt nice. That had to be why Sherlock was wearing them all the time. But Sherlock's hand on his skin felt even nicer…

“It's a lot lighter already. In a few days it will be gone. Perhaps I should take the other side next time?” He winked at Mycroft and Mycroft couldn’t help but grin.

“I would really appreciate if you stuck to less visible places then…”

“Deal!” Sherlock seemed to be very pleased to hear that Mycroft thought that there would indeed be a next time.

Mycroft wanted to kiss him very badly but he steeled himself. This was not the time, let alone the place for that!

He was equally relieved and disappointed when Sherlock put the scarf back in place and sat down again. He grabbed his sandwich and started to eat, rolling his eyes in pleasure at the taste.

Sherlock nodded and said with his mouth full, “S'good, isn't it?”

Mycroft playfully narrowed his eyes at him and faked sternness, and Sherlock giggled around his food, and Mycroft thought that this was so much easier than he had thought. Sherlock was just adorable like this, and to his endless pleasure, little brother was obviously feeling very good and relaxed in his presence, and so was he. It was much more than he had ever expected, and he was very grateful for this development. There was a long day ahead of him and it would be annoying and stressful, but right now all he felt was joy and peace, and he had certainly not felt like this around his brother since Sherlock had been a little boy.

“Thank you,” he said when he had eaten up, and Sherlock gave him a knowing look.

“Anytime, brother mine.”

He said goodbye after a binning the paper they had used for holding the sandwiches, but before he left, he embraced Mycroft, nuzzling his neck on the none-hickey side, his lips brushing against Mycroft's delicate skin between the scarf and his ear, and nothing had ever felt so good.

*****

Half an hour after he had entered, Sherlock came out of Mycroft's office. He looked happy! And there had not been any loud voices behind the thick door!

Anthea hadn't eavesdropped, of course not. She would never do that! But if they had got loud, she would have inevitably heard it. She had heard it before… And now Sherlock walked past her desk and smiled at her.

“He's ready for his meeting,” he informed her. “No need to drag him out by his ear.” She fumed but Sherlock chuckled most disrespectfully. “Just kidding. Have a good day! Oh, and by the way – where are your other two heads?” He snickered and then he was gone, and Anthea shook her head – the only one she had!

This man was just mad! But… it seemed as if he and Boss did get along well now. So he had probably not done anything nasty to him when they had been at their parents' place. She had done wrong by thinking Sherlock had anything to do with _The Scarf_. Well, her suspicion had not come out of nowhere after all.

She shook her head and concentrated on her work, eager to finish an email before she would accompany Mycroft to the meeting. And then she almost bit off her tongue when an idea hit her. No! That couldn’t be?! Could it…?

And then Mycroft came out of his office, looking decidedly happy, his shirt a tad crumpled around the collar, and she hid her stunned smile behind her hand.

Oh yeah… That was good news indeed! She had wished for Boss to get some nice attention after all and since he didn’t like anybody except for her and his menace of a brother, there had not been much choice. But then she narrowed her eyes. Sherlock should better not fuck it up, or he would be in the deepest trouble of his life! She looked at the scarf again and almost fist-pumped the air when she realised what it really had to be hiding. That Mycroft had been so sad after getting it was weird but hey – he had been dealing with _Sherlock_ after all, and whatever they had now, it had to be brand-new and understandably disturbing.

And then Mycroft said, “He might come here more often from now on,” his tone completely casual, and she nodded.

“Very well, sir. As long as he'll be nice…”

Mycroft gave her a long look and then he smiled. “He will.”

“That's fine,” she said softly, and then she and the one man she would do anything for (well, _almost_ anything) left side by side to deal with people who were as annoying as they were stupid, but somehow she supposed Mycroft wouldn’t mind it that much right now – in his splendid mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the many pictures of the hellhound (Greek mythology): http://thanasis.com/cerberus11L.jpg  
> Doesn't look quite like the pretty Anthea :)


	9. Date In Mycroft's House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support for this sappy slowburn-story! :)

“Hello, Sherlock. Come in.”

Sherlock did as he was told, smiling – and then he sniffed. “Did you cook?!”

Mycroft grinned. “I did. Why, have you already had dinner?”

“Nah. I had a sandwich for lunch as you know!”

Mycroft sighed. “Only you can live on one sandwich a day. I'm afraid I need a bit more.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “If that's a test – I'm not going to mock you with your preference for good food. I guess it's rather a treat. And you're in great shape. I do remember that much…”

He winked and Mycroft was very close to just being all over him. But no! This was not their deal! Sherlock gave him a knowing look and he blushed. Since their drunken night, he had blushed more often than in his entire life before… “Um, give me your coat. Then we can have dinner if you think there's some space left in your stomach.”

“I'm sure I'll find some,” Sherlock assured him, and then he bent forward to kiss Mycroft's cheek, and Mycroft firmly pressed his waist.

It was so nice to have him here. He hadn't been sure he would make it back home in time for dinner, and of course Sherlock could have been very well tied up in a case for the police, but as it turned out, they were both free this evening. At least until any emergency required their presence somewhere but Mycroft hoped that wouldn’t happen.

They went to the dining room side by side, his arm around Sherlock's shoulder, Sherlock's arm around his waist, and it felt so new and yet so natural and simply heavenly. Sherlock was dressed in his purple shirt and black trousers and he smelled like orange body wash and apple shampoo and he was freshly shaven and simply edible.

Mycroft had made an effort too of course, dressed in a tight grey suit after a long shower and a thorough shave, and when they walked by the large mirror in the hallway, he couldn’t help but glancing at the pair of them, and he thought that they were really attractive together. Of course Sherlock looked much better than him but still…

“You're gorgeous,” Sherlock said, and Mycroft felt the urge to kiss him so badly that he had to mentally slap himself to not do it at once.

It was not the right moment, not yet.

But soon.

*****

“What? Why are you staring at me like this?”

Mycroft smiled. “Sorry, little brother. It's just such a sight to watch you eat with such good appetite.” He had prepared fish, baked potatoes and a sauce that was quite delicious if he may think so himself.

Sherlock shrugged and used his napkin, which made Mycroft stare at his fantasy-fuelling mouth in awe. “You're a great cook. John always complains about me not eating a lot but his cooking abilities are worse than mine.”

“Ouch. He will have to learn it though; I suppose his daughter might want to eat properly when she's old enough and not live on beans on toast.”

“True. But I'm sure he'll find himself a woman soon enough.”

“Even though he's so devastated about his wife's death?” Mycroft cursed himself for the malice in his voice, but Sherlock didn’t appear to be offended.

“It was all very hard for him. But in the end he's a pragmatic man. Rosie needs a mother.”

“For a while… I thought…” Mycroft broke off, not knowing why he had brought this up.

But Sherlock deduced him with an ease again that was starting to be a tad disconcerting. Mycroft wasn't used to be an open book to anyone. “…that she would end up with two dads instead?” Sherlock finished his sentence.

“Yes,” Mycroft admitted. “I knew he had many girlfriends and then his dear assassin but still. From the very beginning I… feared you would end up together.”

“And you would have let it happen.” Sherlock's voice was soft and still a bit sad.

“What should I do? Tell you that you can't have him because _I_ want you? I doubt it wouldn’t have gone down very well.”

“Since I've never wanted him… But I do see your point. It's just a bit… horrible that without us getting pissed, we wouldn’t be sitting here now. Even though John would have probably sent me to you eventually anyway. He's surprisingly fond of you now.”

“Miracles never cease these days.” Mycroft was not that fond of the doctor. In fact he was not far from hating him for his violence against Sherlock. But they had been here before. And he didn’t really want to talk about John any longer.

For a while they were silent while finishing their meal, and then Mycroft cleared his throat and mumbled, “I thought… We could…” Sherlock's eyes brightened up and he realised his brother had deduced him wrong for once. “No! Not that!”

Sherlock grimaced and he hurried to pat his hand. “I'm not saying it won't happen. But not tonight. Okay?”

Sherlock sighed and then he nodded. “Fine. What else then? Which evil plan have you hatched?”

“I thought we could watch something. Some clips from… our past.” He was well aware that Sherlock had probably seen some of them when he and John had destroyed the film from the Holmes family at the beach for their Eurus-ruse. Mycroft had been more upset about this than about getting scared by Sherlock's strange friends, but he had not shown it. After all those memories were stored in his mind palace so he would never forget them anyway, but it had been nice to actually watch these recordings nonetheless and now they were forever gone. Well, they would be making some even more memorable memories in the foreseeable future for sure. But of course they wouldn’t be quite that innocent… and not to be captured on film.

Sherlock was surprised but then he smiled. “Yes. That could be nice. Do you have popcorn?”

“Oh. I'm afraid I don't. But I might find some chocolates for us.”

“Yummy!”

Mycroft shook his head, grinning, and then he froze when Sherlock took his hand and pressed it gently. Being touched by his brother still felt so special and made him feel so in awe. Mycroft hated to be touched. But he loved it when Sherlock did it.

They looked at each other, both smiling, and then Mycroft got up to bend over the table and brush a kiss on his brother's lips, a soft, gentle peck full of tenderness – and full of promises. And it was returned in the same way by the softest, plushest lips on earth, and, finally leaving doubts and guilt and shame behind, this made Mycroft unconditionally happy.

*****

Sherlock had noticed the size of his brother's collection of homemade videos when he and John had been here to find something to get Mycroft in the right mood for being frightened by Wiggins' people (and of course Sherlock deeply regretted this now, like so many others of his action regarding Mycroft). But only now he realised how much devotion for the family and particularly for him this was showing.

He had sat down on a chair that Mycroft had brought into his video room for him and watched his brother preparing the film.

“Have you got porn here, too?” he teased him, and chuckled when Mycroft's ear tips turned pink.

He turned to look at him sternly, which made Sherlock giggle even more. “I shall inform you that in fact I do not. I find nothing appealing about it.”

“Hm. What if _we_ did one? We could watch it together in here then.”

Mycroft shook his head, grinning. “You don't even get the equipment for this kind of video anymore, Sherlock. And before you suggest it – no, we won't make one with your phone, either!”

“Ah, spoilsport.” He winked and shivered when Mycroft put his hand on his shoulder when he sat down next to him. The film had not started rolling yet.

“Oh, I… forgot to mention,” Mycroft said then. “I think Anthea figured it out.” He gestured between them as if there could have been any doubt what he was talking about.

“What?!” Sherlock gaped at him. “And you just _forgot_ to mention it?!”

“It's all right,” Mycroft soothed him at once. “It seemed to please her…”

“Please her… She hates me!” Sherlock flared.

“No, little brother. She might have before, especially after… the arm-incident,” Mycroft finished quietly. “But now she saw that you make me happy.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “I'm so bloody sorry for that.”

Mycroft stroked his thigh soothingly. “Hush, Sherlock. You were high. And you were… a bit obsessed with slaying this particular dragon. And I guess you were right about him. I just wish… you hadn't done what you did in the end.”

Sherlock leaned his head against his shoulder. It felt very comforting. “I can't say I regret having killed him, Mycroft. He was a viper and he didn’t deserve anything else. But I regret everything I did before. To you. And all in all, I should have solved this case in an a lot smarter way. In the end it was an impossible situation with only one way out. And I made you watch me doing it.” And of course he had not wasted a thought on how Mycroft would feel about that. Like he had never wasted a thought about how any of his actions might affect his brother. Why did Mycroft love him again?

Mycroft nodded against his forehead. “It was horrible. And probably you think I'm a weakling anyway, after Sherrinford…”

Sherlock abruptly raised his head, accidentally pushing against his chin. “I don't! Why would I? Because you were not willing to kill this man? Because it made you sick to watch all the violence Eurus brought over us and the other unfortunate people around?” And in this moment he knew he would never go to Sherrinford again. It had been a waste of time anyway as it had brought him not a bit closer to Eurus than he had been in Musgrave before she had turned totally catatonic. And why should he care about her at all? She had made her choices. She was smarter than anybody and still she had made these choices.

Mycroft had been watching him closely; his expression was soft when he raised his hand to brush Sherlock's curls from his forehead, and Sherlock knew he had deduced his thoughts. Little by little, they had become able to read each other like nobody else could ever do. “I'm glad,” he quietly said. “I am very different from you in this regard.”

“Mycroft, we are very different in almost anything. I guess that's pretty good,” Sherlock mused. “We are alike with our past and our brains and our arrogance…”

“Hey!” Mycroft chuckled and Sherlock grinned before finishing his sentence.

“…but we have enough discrepancies so we're never going to bore each other.”

“Certainly not. You'll still wreck my last nerve…”

Sherlock snorted. “And you'll still be an overprotective mother hen.”

“Guilty as charged.” And then Mycroft kissed him again, and this time they both melted into the kiss that wasn't quite passionate and sexual but definitely not brotherly, and Sherlock enjoyed it very much, and he put his hand on Mycroft's chest to feel his heart beat fast and steady for him.

And then they started to watch the first film, and Sherlock, his hand somehow getting entangled with Mycroft's, looked at long forgotten relatives at boring parties, and at holidays at the sea and a young Mummy and a handsome, laughing Father, and little Eurus, standing apart from everybody else, looking with a stony face at people expressing feelings she would never learn to understand, and at himself as a little boy, glowing with admiration for his big brother at a time when everything had been innocent and happy, and he knew if he could see his eyes when he was looking at his brother now, the expression would not be much different even though the innocence was long gone and he had been through hell and back so many times. But now he could see that whenever he had come back, Mycroft had been there waiting for him, and he would always do, and he could feel the love from all this time ago spread in his heart and bloom and grow in ways he had never considered possible, definitely not as the boy he had been, and not as the rebellious teenage boy and the young man who had stupidly thought his brother was his enemy, while in fact he had always been there, waiting in the shadows where Sherlock would never allow him to be again.


	10. Happy In The Morgue

Sherlock walked around the rather obese male corpse on the stretcher, making his deductions for Lestrade. John was pointing out a few anomalies, and the DI was scribbling it all down, while Molly Hooper was watching them from a distance.

He and John had had a busy morning with several clients, and their problems had been interesting enough for him to focus on the job instead of constantly thinking of Mycroft. But his brother had been in the back of his mind all the time nonetheless, and whenever he had found the time, he had texted him, and Mycroft had always answered, albeit with some delay sometimes.

Sherlock was in love. Madly and thoroughly in love. He assumed it wouldn’t have happened so quickly with a stranger. His brother might be in many ways unknown to him but their bond had been so strong when he had been a child, and he had remembered more and more about him, especially during and since watching the videos, side by side, even holding hands (which was something Sherlock would have said only days ago he would not even be doing at gunpoint) and it was as if something had opened up in his heart, merging the strong love for his brother he'd had with a child with the deep affection he was feeling for the man he had become now. A flower maybe. One with some thorns perhaps but beautiful and strong and wonderful. And these thoughts should have made him cringe, him, the despiser of sentiment himself, but they really didn’t.

Every time his phone vibrated with a text from his brother, his heart started beating faster, and it was a tough task to not grin at the display like the idiot in love that he suddenly was.

Working on the cases grounded him. Made him see that he still was the same man, with the addition of having fallen for someone for the first time in his life. He had been drawn to Irene, but not in the way John believed. And Mycroft… Mycroft must have hated this situation even more than he had shown back then! He must have been totally upset about Sherlock falling for her game besides the little fact that he had basically betrayed the country without realising it and without planning it. He had been an idiot back then for sure, but not because he had been in love but because she had been his equal in this game – until her sentiment for him had turned the tide in his favour. In any way he had messed it up because of a situation he had not known before, and now he was in such a situation again, but apart from his initial struggling right after _The Night_ , he was all confidence and reason now despite the deep emotions he had developed, and it was a relief, yet it was no surprise. He knew he had nothing to fear from his brother. Mycroft would rather cut off his own arms than harm him or embarrass him. Sherlock was as safe with him as he could get. And that made him truly happy.

“Well, Greg,” he said now while John was taking a call on his mobile. “He was clearly killed by someone he knew. Someone with little physical strength, therefore the weapon and the place of the wound. Look out for a girlfriend or a sister even though girlfriend is more likely. This was personal, and it was a woman.”

Greg nodded heftily. “Great, Sherlock! I'll have Donovan on it at once!” With this he waved his goodbyes and hurried out of the autopsy room. John nodded at Molly and proceeded to follow him.

“The clinic just asked if I can drop in earlier. I've got to call Mrs Hudson for Rosie,” he said, looking a tad stressed.

Sherlock nodded and gathered his coat he had taken off. “See you later then.”

“Sherlock…” Molly said, and he turned to her.

Things were good between them. They'd talked after Sherrinford. They had sat down for a coffee and Sherlock had apologised for the phone call. He knew he could have handled this situation in a better way. But under all the pressure, his brain had not quite worked as usual. Molly had said she understood. And she had said it had helped her to finally speak it out. It was obvious that she knew he hadn't meant those words. Not in the way she had meant them. It was fine. They were friends.

But now she had a strange expression on her face, a mixture of sadness and affection. “Do you remember… before we planned your 'death'… You were here, with John. And I said that you looked sad when he couldn’t see you.”

Sherlock remembered all these developments very clearly. The scars on his back would always remind him of Serbia and of those long two years of hunting and scheming and risking his life. And he wondered how Mycroft had been living with this. They had been in contact very sporadically so Mycroft had known he was still alive. But he must have worried so much about him. When had he started loving Sherlock in a not so brotherly way? There was still so much he didn’t know. But that was okay. They would talk about it all. One step at a time. For now all he cared about was that Mycroft loved him. Like a brother and like the lover Sherlock would hopefully soon be for him. “I do remember,” he focused on Molly again, wondering what she was on about. He had never been that good at reading her. Well, of course he had known very quickly that she was interested in him but apart from this… women were just a mystery to him and would always be.

She was watching him closely now. “Back then I thought… You know… You might be in love with him.”

Sherlock laughed. “With John? Oh, don't tell him. He hates any hint that he could be gay. It's a very sore spot for him.” He actually wondered why. Had there been a man in John's life once? But he dismissed this thought. No. John hadn't made any bad experiences with gay men and he wasn't a homophobe. He was just not gay and he hated to be taken for a gay man. Well, perhaps he _was_ a tad homophobic after all… Which was not very pleasant but not a huge problem between them because John would never know he had someone.

Molly nodded. “I know that now. I was wrong. But you _were_ sad, and you hid it from him.”

Sherlock sighed. “I knew I had to fake my death and hurt the people close to me. I knew I had to leave my life behind for who knew how long. It wasn't exactly something to look forward to. And deceiving John was especially hard for me.” And he had hit the floor even harder when he had confronted John after coming back. And John's fist had hit him quite hard, too…

“Sure. I absolutely understand that. But now… I can see the opposite. You look… very happy when you think he can't see you.”

It was like a blow to the gut and Sherlock thought at once of Anthea, who had figured out that there was something highly unbrotherly going on between him and Mycroft. And as loyal as she was towards her beloved boss, she accepted it (but he didn’t have any doubt that if he hurt Mycroft again in any way, which he decidedly not planned to do, she would be all over him and rip out every single hair on his head before punching his face until not even Mummy would recognise him anymore).

What was it with the women who saw things they had never been supposed to see? It was disconcerting! The only advantage regarding Molly was that she couldn’t know anything about Mycroft! She hadn't seen _The Scarf_!

He tried to keep a straight face. “Well, life is rather pleasant these days. No imminent death threats, cases are coming in, my flat looks as good as new…”

She shook her head. “That’s not all. I can see it, Sherlock, especially in you because it's so foreign for you. You're in love.”

“Molly…”

She raised her hands in a placating gesture. “It's all right; I'm not asking anything. Just… If you need anything, advice or… whatever, you can always come to me.”

Sherlock would never understand her. Or any woman for that matter. How could she offer this? Her heart was surely breaking at the thought that Sherlock could be in love with someone else. How could she say she was willing to talk to him about this person and even help him with this alleged relationship?

There wasn't much he could say though except for “Thank you. I appreciate your kindness.”

“You know you can have everything from me.” She blushed when she realised how that had sounded. “I mean, apart from _this_. You could have that too but I know you don't want to, don't worry. It's fine.”

He really hoped it was. “Um. John…”

“…doesn’t know it, sure. I'm not going to say anything. To nobody,” she assured him. “Just… can I ask one question?”

And this time he understood. “It's a man,” he said, and he wasn't surprised about her obvious relief. If Sherlock loved a man, it was okay. She wouldn’t have stood a chance anyway if he was gay. “I'm the gayest man you'll ever meet,” he added with a wink, and to his relief, she giggled, and he smiled, and everything was fine between them.

*****

Molly watched him go and then she let herself drop into her chair. She didn’t know how she was feeling. Hurt, surely albeit stupidly. Relieved that at least it wasn’t another woman. She recalled all too well how jealous she had been of the dead woman whom Sherlock had identified in this room… That hadn't been her proudest day as who the hell was jealous of a corpse?!

Anyway…

Who was it? There wasn't really a question, was there? Sherlock would never know she had figured it out. But seriously, who else? If he didn’t want John to know it… And who would he fall for with all his brilliance and his specialness but him? And she did recall _his_ face when Sherlock had identified the corpse… She hadn't known what it meant but she knew it now.

She remembered what John had told her about the events in Sherrinford. How brave his brother had been. How he had offered his life so John could live. John had said he was feeling very tense about it. How he was glad Mycroft didn’t show up anymore because he didn’t know how to face him after this because he had always been so nasty to him.

So after all Mycroft's bravery had been rewarded. His reward had been Sherlock's heart. And if she thought about it, it was the only choice she could truly live with. How to compete with Sherlock's own brother? How to compete with a man who was even smarter than Sherlock, not to mention very powerful and handsome?

With a firm nod she returned to her work. It was fine. She could deal with this. And tonight she would go out with her friend Susie and perhaps find someone to have a tiny little flirt with.

Sherlock was happy, and that was all that counted. And if he was happy, she was happy too.


	11. A Talk In The Park

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the last chapter was not really about the boys, have another one, which is probably the epitome of sappiness. One more long (and smutty) chapter to go!

“I've literally never been here before,” Mycroft said with a hint of regret in his voice when they sat down on the bench in St. James Park. It was a beautiful day, and there were butterflies flying around the little lake they had walked to, side by side but not touching as it wasn’t possible of course. Mycroft was wearing a light blue suit and, of course, a scarf – a light-blue one that matched the colour of his suit. And his eyes.

“Well, it's a long way to walk! At least _three minutes_!” Sherlock teased him, and his heart made a little jump when Mycroft gave him a playful glare full of affection before he wrapped out his sandwich.

“I just never thought about doing that. Having lunch on a park bench. On most days I don't even _have_ lunch, believe it or not.” He took a bite of his cheese- and cucumber-sandwich.

There was an echo of old hurt in these last words that Sherlock didn’t like at all – especially as he knew he deserved it. “I never meant that, Mycroft. You were a bit chubby until you were about thirteen and since then you've been in great shape. But I always felt so… insufficient compared to you, so I didn’t have anything to attack your perfection than the weight problem you didn’t even have anymore.” And how pathetic was this truth, finally being uttered?

Mycroft gave him a very surprised look and used his paper napkin. “Insufficient? What are you talking about?”

Sherlock gave him a disbelieving look. “Really, Mycroft? Drugs? Dropping out of uni? No real job until I started working as a detective and what sort of posh occupation is that in the eyes of everybody who earns a few hundred-thousand pounds a year? Like you? Who is on first name basis with the bloody Queen?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Sherlock, I never saw you like this.” He reached out and took Sherlock's hand, and it made the younger man gasp.

Sure, there was nobody around who was paying them any attention but this sort of open display of affection was the very last thing he would have expected when he had suggested Mycroft to meet for lunch outside his office. It showed how shocked Mycroft was about his words. But how could he really be? Wasn’t it obvious? Wouldn’t everybody feel insufficient when compared to him? He recalled very well how his parents had been bragging about their older son's uni grades and very early graduation and then working for the government. And then there was Sherlock, the rebel, the loose cannon who could do nothing right (until he had miraculously and stupidly become the 'grownup' in Mummy's eyes).

“Well, _I_ did,” he said when Mycroft had let go of his hand with obvious reluctance. “Plus I hardly saw you anymore. We became strangers, didn’t we? Well, you know it as well as I do. And I was unhappy with myself so I lashed out at the golden son whenever you lorded over me in all your perfection, telling me to do better. Do I have to mention that I'm bloody sorry for that now? Apart from the other two million things I should apologise for?” He stuffed half of his sandwich into his mouth and chewed grimly while Mycroft next to him was looking rather shaken. Great! Exactly what he had not wanted this meeting to be!

Mycroft was fumbling with his scarf now as if it had suddenly got too warm for him on the bench of nasty truths. “I'm sorry, too, Sherlock,” he finally said. “I never meant to make you feel like this. All I wanted was helping you. I wanted you to be clean and happy and safe. But I felt so helpless in the eyes of problems I didn’t understand, and if I feel defensive, I tend to get extra arrogant and cold. I should have done better with my little brother, whom I loved and love like nobody else.”

Suddenly it was so hard not to cling around Mycroft's neck, and Sherlock's eyes had to show it clearly as Mycroft, after a short glance around them, stroked over his hair. “Come to me this evening, please. And please accept my apology for being a rubbish big brother.”

Sherlock smiled despite the turmoil in his heart. “You never were. You were just an idol I couldn’t live up to.”

“I have so many flaws, little brother. I'm not perfect at all. And I don't only mean my physical flaws. I'm scheming and cold, unapproachable to almost everybody and very hard to endure to be around.”

“And which are your bad sides then?” Sherlock asked with a wink, and Mycroft stared at him for a moment before he burst out laughing.

“Oh, Sherlock, you are so special. I adore your sense for the goldfish, your energy and temper, your charisma and your looks, not even mentioning your sense of humour, and your elegance. You turn heads wherever you go. I guess you don't even notice.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, I really don't. And I don't actually care if people find me appealing. Except for you, of course. And Mycroft – you don't have any flaws. You are _you_ and I find you bloody attractive. Forget every stupid remark about your weight I've ever made. You are gorgeous, and you too turn a lot of heads.” Mycroft called _him_ elegant? Mycroft was the quintessence of elegance with his long legs and his incredibly sexy way of walking! He oozed charisma, power and he was damn pretty with his blue eyes, the proud nose and these kissable lips. Not to mention his cute little arse…

Mycroft looked rather disbelieving. “No.”

“Oh yes. I saw lots of glances when we walked here. And do I have to mention _The Lady_?”

Mycroft groaned, and Sherlock giggled. “No, please don't mention her.”

“She does have good taste. But she can't have you!”

“Sherlock, she never will.”

“Good.”

For a few minutes they sat together in silence, finishing their lunch. Sherlock opened one of the small bottles of water he had brought and took a gulp, and then he offered it to Mycroft, who took it without hesitation, drinking from it without even wiping off the rim. It was a weirdly intimate gesture, and when Sherlock saw that there was still some water left when Mycroft dropped the hand with the bottle, he took it away from him to empty it and even licked over the glass before drinking.

Mycroft gave him a knowing look that was more suggestive than it should be allowed. And it made Sherlock's trousers go tight. This pseudo kiss and Mycroft's flirting eyes were disturbingly erotic, and Sherlock wanted to touch him and snog him right now!

His brother didn’t miss it. “Later, little brother.”

“Promised?”

Mycroft smiled. “Promised.”

Sherlock nodded and tried to ignore his erection. He unconvincingly fumed at Mycroft when his brother pointedly looked at his groin with a smirk and even had the impertinence to wink at him! But of course Sherlock loved it. They had just laid some rather nasty facts on the table and it amazed him how Mycroft had turned the mood into something a lot more pleasant.

“What's your favourite colour?” he asked him then. This was about getting to know each other better after all. He would forego asking him when he had starting to see him as more than his little brother, not wanting to reveal any more guilty feelings now.

Mycroft gave him a confused look but then he smiled. “I see. Well, blue, I'd think. Yours?”

“Black.”

“Black is actually not a colour.”

This time Sherlock groaned and Mycroft chuckled. “Okay. Still it is!”

“Fine. And it suits you very well, little brother.”

“I love your suits,” Sherlock confessed.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “You do?”

“Of course. They got tighter and tighter over the years!” _Damn…_

Mycroft tilted his head. “So you _did_ notice?”

“It seems so… But I never got it…” It was probably hard to say in retrospect, but he wondered all at once if he would have really had sex with Mycroft, completely drunk or not, if he hadn't been drawn to him unconsciously? Well, of course not… In fact he had noticed much more than just the bespoke suits, hadn't he? All he had just thought about, Mycroft's several treats – he had noticed them before without even realising it.

“Amazing,” Mycroft mumbled, sounding astonished.

“Yeah. I really _am_ the slow one…”

“Sherlock…”

“I know! You didn’t mean it.” Sherlock patted his thigh. “But this will always come up again, won't it? All the things we said and regret now or which had to be said for a purpose, no matter how silly that purpose was as I would have never shot you.”

Mycroft nodded and he grabbed Sherlock's hand again. It seemed they couldn’t stop touching one another, public place or not. It was wonderful but they both knew they had to be very careful.

“It will,” Mycroft agreed. “But I hope our… relationship will be strong enough to deal with the past and the scars it has left.”

“It will,” Sherlock said firmly. “Because we want it to be. I definitely want it. This is not just a game or a challenge. It's what I want. And what I need.”

Mycroft blinked quickly after this confession, spoken in a very deep and quiet tone. “I wish I could show you how this affects me…” Sherlock bent his head and pointedly looked at Mycroft crotch (and damn the tight trousers stressed it scandalously strongly!), and the older man gasped and laughed then. “Sherlock! Behave!”

“Never. You wouldn’t recognise me anymore.”

“Now that's true…” Mycroft sounded very fond, and Sherlock caught himself beaming at him.

“Favourite film?” he asked then with a smirk.

“Oh… I think it has to be 'The Godfather'.”

“Yeah, that fits! I can totally picture you as a merciless mafia boss! Mine would be 'Murder On The Orient Express'. Favourite pop song?”

Mycroft thought about that for a moment. 'Satisfaction' from the Stones I'd say.” He shrugged. “I don't listen to this kind of music very much. Or any music actually.”

Sherlock grinned about the title. “Mine is Madonna's 'Like A Virgin',” he said then with a deadpan expression. John had forced him to listen to her music after that silly stag night game.

They stared at each other for a moment before they both burst out laughing.

Sherlock was as happy as he had never been before when they walked back to the exit. Life was great! His brother was wonderful! And tonight they would get even closer! He would have loved to stay longer but of course Mycroft had to go back to the office. It was a miracle that nobody had asked for him coming back already.

They had decided to go their separate ways after leaving the park. Mycroft looked him deep in the eyes when they had reached the spot. “Thank you, Sherlock. This was the best lunch break I've ever had. Being with you like this… It's just…”

“…wonderful,” Sherlock softly and sentimentally finished his sentence. He wasn’t afraid of Mycroft mocking him.

And the older man smiled at him. “Yes, that's what it is. And I can't wait to see you tonight.”

“Me neither, big brother. Me neither.”

“Good. And Sherlock – I shall inform you that I am in fact _not_ on first name basis with the Queen.”

“Now that's a shame. You're her best man after all.”

The look Mycroft gave him was so full of tenderness that his knees got weak, and when they parted and he walked away to get a cab home, he was feeling like walking on cloud nine.


	12. Healed Wounds And New Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, have the last chapter! And thank you for all the lovely support! :-***

“Can you look after Rosie this evening?”

Sherlock slowly turned to John. “Um. No, sorry, I've got plans.”

John stared at him as if he had grown a second head. “Plans? Like a _date_?”

Why had he not thought about this possibility? So far John had been at work when he had met Mycroft, Rosie staying with Mrs Hudson, Molly or his sister then as Sherlock could get called to a crime scene anytime. When John wanted him to babysit now, he had obviously no other option. He had very rarely asked him to do it before which actually suited Sherlock as he did like her a lot but he wasn’t that keen on changing nappies…

“Um, not exactly,” Sherlock lied. “I'm meeting Mycroft.” What else should he say? If he invented a love interest, John would pester him about introducing him to the person, which he could most definitely not do. And Sherlock could hardly pretend having a case as his blogger would pester him about _that_ , too, and it was not his habit to do experiments in the evening. He had been leading a rather boring life before this drunken night, he mused, spending his evenings at home except if he had to go out for a case.

“Oh, I see. Wow. Never thought apologising to him would really lead to you getting along well enough to meet up and talk.”

Somehow Sherlock was a little sad that he couldn’t tell John the truth. Would he have done it if their friendship had not suffered as much as it had since _The Fall_? No. Probably not. He had trusted John with his life but this was something completely different. John wasn't a square by any means and he had said it was all fine on their first day when he had thought Sherlock had a boyfriend; Sherlock knew he wasn't really a homophobe just because he didn’t want to be considered gay. But Mycroft was not exactly just a boyfriend… And of course his brother would probably strangle him if he told John about them. Not that he considered doing that. After all that had happened, he simply didn’t trust John that much anymore.

So he just shrugged. “I guess it was about time. And he's not that bad.”

“Course he isn’t. Never really understood why he called himself your archenemy when he kidnapped me back then.” John snorted. “He's an arrogant bastard on the outside but he's actually just a kitten. And no matter how much he complains about you, he'd do anything for you. People just seem to do that, don't they?” He grinned at Sherlock and suddenly Sherlock felt, despite the fact that he couldn’t tell him the truth about him and Mycroft, better in his presence than he'd had for a long time.

“It's because of my tremendous charm,” he said lightly, and John grinned once more.

“Yep, I guess so. Well, it's no problem. I'll invite my date over here then if you don't mind.”

“Of course I don't. Who is she?”

“Another doctor, started working in the clinic a couple of weeks ago; her name's Nancy. I told you about her!”

“Oh. Must have deleted it.”

“Didn’t expect anything else.”

Yes, this was nice. This was the typical fond bickering of the Baker Street Boys, and Sherlock liked it very much.

And tonight he would stay with Mycroft, at least for a part of the night as he would have to be back in the morning. And they would not bicker like they had always done! Oh no – this was going to be about everything else than bickering!

This was not perfect; their relationship would always have to bloom in the shadows, but it was all right. A law-breaking sexual liaison with your own brother just had to be handled very discreetly (apart from Anthea, who knew about it already, and damn, it still shocked him a bit…). They would manage. And they would enjoy it.

Sherlock took his coat. “I'll go then.” Mycroft would be at home soon, and Sherlock didn’t want to miss out on even a minute with him.

*****

Mycroft looked gorgeous as always when he let Sherlock into the house. He was dressed in a light-grey suit with a purple waistcoat; his hair was shimmering as it was still damp from the shower he had taken ten, no fifteen minutes ago. He smelled of aftershave and deodorant, and he looked relaxed and definitely happy to see Sherlock.

And he hadn't bothered with a scarf.

Sherlock closed the door behind him, hastily took off his coat and hung it up and then he embraced his brother, brushing a kiss onto his clean shaven cheek. “Mmm. You smell great.”

“Ditto, little brother,” Mycroft mumbled into his hair.

Of course Sherlock had made an effort with his own appearance as well and he had probably never scrubbed himself more thoroughly than today.

“And how's Mr Hickey today?” Sherlock pulled back to look at the fading bruise, while Mycroft was chuckling.

“ _Mr Hickey_ will very soon disappear for good.”

“It's a shame…”

“No, it isn’t!”

Sherlock snickered and then sniffed. Not only his brother smelled very pleasant. “Pasta Carbonara? Mmm!”

“I do hope so.” Mycroft smiled at him and suddenly Sherlock couldn’t wait any longer.

He bent forward to kiss Mycroft's lips, and it wasn't an innocent peck with closed lips. He had expected hesitation like the last time but he was proven wrong when Mycroft grabbed his hips and returned the kiss whole-heartedly, their groins soon starting to grind against each other, both men hard and aroused in their pants.

Mycroft looked adorably dazed when they parted again, his lips pink and swollen, his eyelids fluttering. “Oh,” he breathed. “That was nice.”

And Sherlock nodded in absolute agreement. He would never really remember how he had felt when they had kissed for the very first time, but he would never forget _this_ kiss. And he did recall enough of the first one to know it had been very different – aggressive and needy and rough. Perhaps there would come a time when they would kiss like this again in the heat of passion. He actually hoped they would. But this kiss, that had been both tender and without any feelings of guilt, would forever remain in the very core of his mind palace, a token of love and promise and devotion, and he knew Mycroft felt exactly the same.

Mycroft squeezed his waist. “As pleasant as it is to make out in the corridor – dinner is ready and cannot wait.”

“And we'll need the strength for later.” Sherlock held his breath, hoping his brother hadn't changed his mind about doing more than holding hands tonight, and he almost sighed in relief when Mycroft smiled.

“Yes, I guess we will. Come, let me feed you.”

“With a fork?!” Sherlock asked in mock astonishment.

Mycroft shook his head with a smirk. “I trust you are able to use cutlery without my help.”

“Only because you taught me.”

“Of course. And it was quite messy if I remember correctly.”

“Everything I do is messy…”

“So true, little brother.”

And they walked over to the dining room hand in hand, their fingers just instinctively entangling with each other, and Sherlock was looking forward very much to everything he would get between his teeth tonight.

*****

They went to the living room after taking care of the dishes together. The pasta had been delicious, and Sherlock had eaten with great appetite, and they'd even had a glass of fine white wine – only one each. Neither of them planned to even get tipsy tonight.

When they sat down on the large black couch, Sherlock's heart was beating in a rhythm so fast that Mycroft could probably hear it. He was excited and looking forward to whatever his brother was up to now – but he was also a tiny bit scared. Which was actually rather strange as they'd already had sex and he had obviously known what to do back then; at least he hadn't managed to inflict permanent damage on his brother. And he might have done some research in the meantime (every time he was alone in 221B) so theoretically he was well prepared. But still he felt a little giddy.

Of course Mycroft didn’t miss it. He gently put his arm around Sherlock's shoulder. “No reason to be nervous, brother mine. We won't do anything you're not comfortable with. Never. And if you just want to cuddle…”

“I do want that but I want to finally get naked, too, and do _things_ with you!”

Mycroft chuckled. “Well, no objections, dear. But if you don't feel good about something, let me know – if I don't realise it myself.”

Sherlock knew he would rather bite off his tongue than telling his brother to stop doing whatever heavenly thing he would be doing to him. “Won't happen, brother. I know I'm completely safe with you. I'm just a little nervous, that's it.”

Mycroft smiled. “You mind if I kiss you?”

“That was a goldfish question!”

That brought him a grin and a playful slap to the arm and a moment later, Mycroft bent over to press his lips on his, and Sherlock eagerly returned the kiss and simply started to melt in his brother's arms.

*****

Somehow Sherlock ended up straddling his lap, which sent an explosion of excitement through his groin – and through Sherlock's, obviously, judging by the loud moan his brother sent into his mouth. Somehow his hands were fumbling with a very plush and seductive bottom. Somehow he started nibbling at a long, pale neck and he might have even considered for a moment to cover it in bruises or 'Mr Hickeys', and he giggled in a most undignified way against said neck at this name.

“What?!” Sherlock asked with an audible smile in his voice, and Mycroft hurried to go on with his efforts.

“Nothing,” he mumbled, squeezing Sherlock's cheeks, and Sherlock moaned again and his grinding against Mycroft's erection got even more frantic.

Perhaps they should have gone straight upstairs, but Mycroft had stupidly expected them to start in a slower pace. Why he had thought that after they had waited so long for it was beyond him now. Sherlock might have been a little anxious at the beginning but he was most certainly not anymore if his rock hard cock that was pushing against Mycroft's was any indicator.

The memories of their first encounter were coming back with full force now that he tasted Sherlock's sweet skin, had him rutting against him, the air filled with passion and greed. But back then it had been a clashing of two worked up men after hours of serious bickering, and their anger had been the catalyst for their explosive fucking; there was no other word for it.

Now he knew that Sherlock had had feelings for him before, deeply hidden, which made this reaction a lot more plausible. For him it had been logical enough after decades of suppressed longing for his little brother – if one could speak of logic regarding two brothers who had viciously insulted each other and had ended up in a pile of angry passion.

 _This_ was so different. The passion was there without a doubt, but there was no anger, no frustration, just deep sentiment and mutual desire, about to cumulate in a completely different kind of lovemaking.

“Let's go upstairs, Sherlock,” he rasped out, his hands still massaging these impossibly sexy cheeks through the fabric of Sherlock's trousers and pants.

“No way,” Sherlock said, and then he slid down from his lap, right between his legs, and spread his thighs. “I'm hungry again. Time for eating messily.” And with this he unzipped Mycroft's trousers and Mycroft moaned in desperate pleasure when long fingers wrapped around his throbbing cock before the softest, plushest lips in the universe engulfed his already wet head.

*****

The memory of Mycroft's infatuating taste came back when he started to suck him, and Sherlock rolled his eyes in delight. No wonder he had gone to him the next day! His brother tasted like nothing he'd ever had in his mouth before, a conglomerate of bitter and sweet and musky, and these drops that were pearling from his slit were like nectar, and Sherlock lapped them up as fast as they appeared.

And gradually he took the thick, long cock deeper into his mouth and, eventually, his throat. He was in awe that he had managed to give head to his brother in a thoroughly drunken state without scratching him all up, but perhaps he had and Mycroft hadn't bothered! Because it was pretty difficult to cover his lips with his teeth and still produce enough friction, and he was drooling all over his chin, which couldn’t be a very attractive sight, and he wouldn’t even mention the noises he was producing. But Mycroft clearly didn’t mind any of it; his hands were massaging Sherlock's scalp, his mouth was open in pleasure and his eyes closed most of the time. Whenever he opened them and looked down on him, Sherlock tried to return his gaze and realised that he had to go crossed-eyed doing it. In short this was indeed messy and a bit funny and strange but he loved it, loved having Mycroft at his mercy like that and spending him pleasure, and he liked to believe he was making up for all the hurt he had inflicted on his brother over more than two decades. Even though it would probably take more than a single blowjob to reach this goal… But Sherlock was willing to do whatever it took to cover all the bad memories that Mycroft had to have regarding him with very pleasurable ones.

When he stopped to breathe properly for a moment, his hand replacing his mouth in caressing his brother, he stated, “It's a shame we can't delete all the bad things, isn’t it? Make ourselves believe that we had always been on such good terms?”

Mycroft stroked his face. “Perhaps. But I think the bad stuff has allowed the good one to happen. We are our experiences, little brother. They have shaped us into the people we are now.”

That was true of course. “Sentiment is fine between us now, isn’t it?”

“Oh, of course.”

“Good. Because I love you, Mycroft. I've always done, deep inside, and these past days have added a dimension to it that is just… awesome.” He was kneeling between his brother's spread legs, his hand was stroking up and down his cock, and he was in the middle of sucking him off, but somehow it felt like the perfect moment to say this.

Mycroft looked seriously touched about his words. “My little brother… I love you too. Always have, and you're right. These past days have been so special.”

And they had been just the beginning of something that Sherlock didn’t want to end. Ever. He didn’t have to ask his brother if he was thinking about that the same way; Sherlock knew he was.

They shared a smile and then Sherlock returned to work, and a few minutes later, he held still when warm fluid was pulsing into his mouth, and he had been memorising every second of this first time in a sober state, having already started to fill a very special room in his mind palace with everything that would happen between him and his brother, his man. And now he stored the very special taste of his semen in said room, knowing one day soon he would not swallow it (which had been surprisingly pleasant) but keep it in his mouth to store it in a test tube so he could experiment on it or just look at it at home…

“Come up now, Sherlock,” Mycroft said hoarsely and took off his shirt.

And a moment later Sherlock's trousers and pants dropped to his feet, and a large hand was wrapped around his hard shaft, and a few deft strokes later, his release splashed onto Mycroft's deliciously hairy chest, and Sherlock rubbed the sticky stuff into his skin before crawling back onto his lap, and they lost themselves in a deep, messy kiss.

*****

In the pale light of the lamp on Mycroft's nightstand, he was watching Sherlock, spread out on the bed next to him, his black hair still damp from the shower they had shared, looking like a black halo on the white pillow. Sherlock was sleeping on his back, his naked body laid out in full glory, and Mycroft couldn’t have averted his gaze from this sight if his life had depended on it.

It was not only the beauty of Sherlock's body that touched him deeply, all the visible muscles of his stomach and chest, the small dark nipples, the long limbs, the luring genitals. It was also the scar on his chest where Mary Watson, the devil rest her soul, had almost killed him. He had only learned who had shot his brother when it had been clear he had forgiven her. Otherwise she would have bitten the dust long before Norwood's bullet had caught her. And there were more nearly faded scars on the smooth, soft skin. Reminders of cases and conflicts with drug dealers in his early adulthood, and in his lip the little scar of one of his very first rather explosive experiments. And on his brother's back, not visible for him now, he would find the deep scars of the vicious whipping in Serbia, that he had been forced to witness. He had played cool and superior towards his brother back then, not being able to afford showing how this horrible treatment had affected _him_ ; he had basically felt every blow that had been inflicted on his baby brother's back. He had known he couldn’t show his hand and free Sherlock; too many people had been outside to try overwhelming the man. When Sherlock had talked him out of the building, they had been able to sneak away after he had freed his brother. But this had been one of the truly frightening moments of his life – the fear for Sherlock's life, not his own. All his life it had always been about Sherlock.

Sherlock had made a vow towards the Watsons, which had failed in the end, and no matter how much he had hated her for shooting at Sherlock – he was deep in Mary's debt for saving Sherlock's life by sacrificing her own. And now Mycroft made a silent vow towards his sleeping brother, promising him to always look after him and cherish him as the brother he would always be, and as the lover he was now, for as long as Sherlock would want it to be.

Eventually he lay down beside him, closing his eyes for a nap of his own, sure that when Sherlock woke up, he would want to explore their new-found sexual relationship a bit more, and he was more than up to it.

Nobody knew what would happen tomorrow, next week or in two months. Life was fragile, especially the life of a man who lived on danger and excitement, and even though Mycroft would do all he could do to protect him, like he had always done – it had already been so close so often, and there were no guarantees even for his smart little brother. And knowing there would be no life for him in a world without Sherlock, he would cherish every moment they had together, and he didn’t see any reason for waiting with the sexual pleasures any longer, now that it was absolutely clear that Sherlock really and honestly desired and loved him. Whatever Sherlock would want from him, he would get it.

*****

Sherlock woke up and yawned and stretched like a cat. A glance at the clock on Mycroft's nightstand – what an adorable possession in these times! – told him it was only 9pm. He had slept for about an hour, and felt refreshed.

He turned to his brother and smiled when he found him deeply asleep. His hairy chest was moving up and down, and somehow Sherlock found that very sexy. What did it say about him that he even found Mycroft's _breathing_ sexy? Well, that he loved and desired him, obviously… Very much, in fact, and who could blame him? His brother simply was sexy from his thinning black hair to his exceptionally long feet, and everything in between. Sherlock caught himself licking his lips when he took in the sight of his brother's massive cock. He wondered if Mycroft could actually choke him with it, and if his brother would be up to experiment on that. Breath-play was a popular kink after all!

He really couldn’t wait to do everything with his brother that Mycroft was up to. But of course this wasn't just about sex. These past days had shown him what he had missed out on for all those lost years. All the bickering and the snarking when they could have done _this_ instead – having dinner, talking about just everything, simply spending time with each other, and doing the most pleasant sexual acts together. He had been an idiot, so much was sure. And it had taken getting completely pissed at their mother's party to change it all. Well, the universe was rarely lazy but for sure it was very often very ironic…

He looked up and down on Mycroft's tempting form now, memorising all the hair and the large nipples and every little freckle and mole. What would he ever have been without this man? Who had dragged him out of drug dens and taught him about everything he knew? He would have been lost long before John had ever appeared on the scene. He owed Mycroft so much and had paid that back with nothing but nastiness. Well, he was very determined to make up for it now and until his last breath.

Starting now… Mycroft had slept long enough…

He straddled him and kissed his lips, and Mycroft woke up in an instant, not looking in the least offended. He smiled at him and let his hands slide up and down on Sherlock's sensitive sides, and Sherlock got hard at once and made sure to poke his cock against Mycroft's until it started to rise as well.

“Not so middle-aged after all,” he teased him.

“It appears so,” Mycroft smirked.

“I want you, Mycroft. Now.” He'd had him before. Twice. The soreness of their vigorous acts had disappeared in the meantime and now Sherlock wanted him in a way he could always remember. Not necessarily physical of course but he knew that wouldn’t happen anyway.

He saw his brother giving him a scrutinising look but then Mycroft nodded. “Very well. But this time we'll take it a bit slower, hm?”

“Fine with me. As long as you don't fall asleep while fucking me…”

“Language, little brother!”

Sherlock snorted. “It's too late to teach me manners. You've had your chance.”

Mycroft sighed playfully. “I guess I'll just have to live with the result. Now move so I can get my tongue into your hole.”

Sherlock gasped and saw Mycroft's eyes brighten up with triumph. “Nasty big brother!”

“The nastiest,” Mycroft confirmed, and then Sherlock was spread out on the bed once more, this time lying on his stomach, and Mycroft went to work.

*****

Sherlock was glad he had climaxed earlier this evening; otherwise he would have come right here and now when he felt his brother opening him up with his tongue while his large hands were kneading his arse cheeks.

“My God!” he mumbled, seeing stars.

“Just stick to Mycroft as before,” his brother chuckled before he resumed his task of licking Sherlock into the stratosphere.

“That's so much better than you sticking your nose into my business!” Sherlock teased back, grinning when Mycroft gave him something that remotely resembled a slap onto his arse. He assumed that Mycroft would never be open to spanking him during their play – except if Sherlock managed to make him drunk again… But he wasn't sure himself if he really wanted to explore the darker sides of sexuality. Maybe one day but for now he was very content with soft and gentle pleasure.

His brain got dizzy when he imagined turning the tables and licking his brother so intimately. Oh yes… That was definitely something he wanted to do.

“Where are you going?” he complained a moment later when Mycroft stopped his efforts and proceeded to get up.

“We need some lubrication, Sherlock. More than last time…”

“Oh, yes. What did we use at all?”

“Spit,” Mycroft said dryly, and Sherlock grinned.

“Yes, I remember now! You spat into my hole!”

“That was really nasty,” Mycroft mused, not sounding appalled at all, and Sherlock thought that repeating this had to go on the imaginary list of things they needed to do. After all Mycroft had demanded from him that there should always be a list!

“What's so funny?” Mycroft asked while squeezing some sticky fluid all over his crack.

“Oh, nothing. Oh, damn!”

“Mm. Like my finger in your hole?”

“Who would have thought you're so good at talking dirty!” Sherlock certainly hadn't. For a moment he thought of the other faceless men his brother had been so intimate with. Probably not in recent years but still – Sherlock would have loved to punch them all… He didn’t mention it as he knew it to be pointless; neither of them could change the past. Which was one of the reasons why he had not explained why he had chuckled. Probably Mycroft wouldn’t have found the list-joke so funny… As with everything Sherlock had done, he hadn't wasted a thought on how Mycroft had to be feeling about looking for him and finding him in drugs dens, not knowing if he would discover a brother who was high as a kite, covered by his own vomit – or dead…

“I may have some hidden talents,” Mycroft said modestly, and Sherlock nodded.

“And I will find them all, no matter how deep I'll have to dig…”

“You are incorrigible.”

“That's what they say.”

When had this become so easy? Why had he never tried to find this sort of tone with his brother before? They wouldn’t have had to be lovers to just be easy and nice with each other! Of course Mycroft had behaved stiffly and humourless towards him, as he was with everybody else, but dammit – Sherlock was not everybody else! If he had just tried to see things from Mycroft's point of view, they would have got closer so much earlier. And Sherlock guessed they would have got together as lovers years before as the feeling must have been there already, on both sides.

He turned around, shivering under Mycroft's ministrations of opening him up. “Since when, Mycroft?”

He didn’t have to say more. Mycroft stopped his efforts but his fore- and middle finger stayed put in him. “Do you think now is a good time to discuss this, little brother?”

In all probability not but then, why not? “I'm not judging you. I'm just curious. If you say 'five' then that's how it was.” It was a joke of course but Mycroft made a strangled noise.

“Five?! Sherlock! You can't think…” Now he did pull back and Sherlock turned around hastily to drag him back onto the bed and hug him.

“I'm just kidding, Mycroft. I know it wasn't.”

“Don't give an old man a heart-attack, little brother,” Mycroft mumbled against his neck.

“Middle-aged, Mycroft, not old,” Sherlock softly reminded him.

“Well… You were sixteen. It's still bad enough but not quite as horrible.”

“It's not horrible at all. And in an ideal world, I would have noticed and immediately reciprocated, and we could have been doing _this_ for twenty fucking years.”

“You'd have grown tired of me a long time ago,” Mycroft mumbled, and there was a hint of insecurity in his voice.

Sherlock could grasp his fears easily. Mycroft's thoughts were practically hanging over his head in blinking letters: _Will he love me for long? Forever maybe? Or will he, now that he has discovered sexuality, leave me for someone more interesting?_

He patted Mycroft's face. “You're stuck with me, brother, if you like it or not. I won't go anywhere.”

Mycroft smiled wryly. “You say that now but what if…”

“No, Mycroft. Not going to happen. What am I supposed to do with a goldfish now that I know how it is to be with a koi?”

Mycroft was speechless for a moment but then he chuckled. “That's what I am?”

“Yep. The king of all koi above all. A huge, expensive fish, slimy and cold.”

“I'll give you slimy and cold!” Mycroft threatened, and Sherlock let him go to lie back with a grin.

“Rather give me your _cock_ now, big brother, and I know it's neither slimy nor cold. Let's do it like this. I want to look into your eyes when you fuck me.” His arse was prepared enough now. And frankly – even if it wasn't, he didn’t and couldn’t wait any longer.

“All right then. Prepare to get entered.”

“Oh, yes, enter me, oh dangerous pirate Captain Koi!”

Mycroft shook his head with a grin that made Sherlock's heart jump. “From king to captain in less than a minute… It's a disgrace!”

“The only thing that's a disgrace here is that my arse is still empty.”

“Well, it shall be filled.”

*****

Time stood still.

Earth seemed to be empty apart from the two of them.

In the silence of Mycroft's house, in which no noises of traffic were audible and which was far away from all neighbour houses, the only noise was the clashing of skin on skin, their panting and quiet moaning, in short the noises of their lust.

Every snarky remark had said goodbye for now. This was nothing to make jokes about as it was… holy? Yes. Sherlock would have gone so far. For the first time since he had come to terms with their drunken lovemaking, he regretted that it had happened like this, that not _this time_ was their first time.

It wasn't rushed and rough like it had been back then, not born out of anger and repressed desires. It was bliss and intimacy to a grade that felt divine. It was expression of lust but much more of love, a love that had captured all his being.

He knew these copious amounts of sentiments had to show on his face but it didn’t matter – he was seeing the same on his brother's features.

With no shields whatsoever, they were gazing into each other's eyes, moving in the same rhythm, Mycroft filling him up completely, carefully sliding in and out, eventually in a heftier pace when Sherlock's eyes pleaded for him to do so.

Every few seconds Mycroft kissed him, and in these moments Sherlock feared he would pass out from sheer happiness. His hands were on Mycroft's shoulders, and when Mycroft bent down further to capture his mouth in a kiss, he firmly embraced him, but not even that disturbed Mycroft's steady rhythm. He was the perfect lover as he was the perfect politician or string puller or whatever he called himself. He hadn't been the perfect brother, but that had been much more Sherlock's fault than his.

And Sherlock wouldn’t repeat his mistakes. He wanted this to last, forever, in fact, as he knew he had found the one person that answered his needs and complemented him in a way nobody else ever would.

When he felt his orgasm building up, he urged Mycroft to lower his body completely onto his and slung his legs around Mycroft's waist, which made his cock get trapped almost painfully between their bodies, but it was a sweet pain, matching the slightly burning stretch of his hole around his brother's thick cock. He would feel that for a day or two but he knew he would love it.

Sherlock climaxed first, nearly biting down on Mycroft's neck again, but in the last moment he chose his shoulder instead, where the bruise wouldn’t be visible to others, and then he felt his brother erupt in him and Mycroft groaned surprisingly deeply, his lips finding Sherlock's in a rough, needy kiss, before he collapsed all over him.

Sherlock just embraced him tighter, enjoying his weight on his body. His sperm would probably soon glue them together but that was fine with him. He didn’t want Mycroft to roll over. He didn’t want to leave his bed. He wanted to wake up with him in the morning.

But he knew he couldn’t. He had to go back to Baker Street soon and sleep in his own bed so neither John nor Mrs Hudson would become suspicious.

It would hurt sometimes, especially when John started a serious relationship with this woman, what was her name again? Sherlock would never be able to go with them and his own lover to a restaurant or the cinema, or sit on the couch with Mycroft's arm around his shoulder, talking to John. He would forever have to stay single in everybody's eyes (except for the scary Anthea). Mummy would ask him every Christmas when he would bring someone home, just like she asked Mycroft, not knowing that her sons had already brought home the one they loved. But that was just the price they had to pay for being together. They were big boys; they could deal with it.

He grunted when Mycroft gently disentangled from him to lie down next to him.

“Regrets, brother mine?” he asked cautiously.

Sherlock put his head on the hairy, sticky chest and closed his eyes in pleasure when he was embraced by two long arms at once. “None. Just a bit sad I can't show you off. Telling everybody to keep their hands off you as you're mine.”

“Oh, I see. Well, ditto, brother dear. But then – we never took the easy way.”

“No, that's just not us. I love you, Mycroft. And this was great. Best sex I've ever had.”

Mycroft chuckled. “I'm glad to hear that.” He tensed then. “You were a virgin before the party, weren't you?”

“Course I was. Waited for the white knight to get into my knickers. Took you long enough!” He smiled when Mycroft gently stroked over his cheekbone.

“Very true, little brother. Apologies for the delay.”

“Accepted. Do you love me, too?”

“To the moon and back.”

Sherlock nuzzled his face against his neck. “Glad we've both become hopelessly sentimental.”

“It gets us all in the end.”

That seemed to be quite true. And Sherlock was very happy that it had finally got them.

The End


End file.
